


Bonds of Old: A Voice in the Wilderness

by cakeisnotpie



Series: Medieval Fantasy 'Vengers Cakeverse [2]
Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Bruce is a berserker, Dragons, F/M, Het and Slash, I think this is going to be a trilogy, M/M, Sexual Content, Swords, Violence, back from the dead, chainmail, darcy is a BAMF Disney princess, epic fantasy, lots of poetry, no damsels in distress, no seriously, second in a series, sorcery, the women are BAMFs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-01-14 05:21:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 89,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1254373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakeisnotpie/pseuds/cakeisnotpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Darcy Lewis is not the typical lady of the manor and she's not about to start playing that role now. One step ahead of the King's edict that she marry, Darcy runs for shelter to her brother Philip Coulson and his new husband Lord Clint Barton, only to find she may have jumped from the frying pan into the fire. With the famed Rogers' shield uncovered, Darcy finds herself in the thick of the action with only her growing magic to stand between herself and the evil sorcerer's army. Well that, and a quiet clerk by the name of Bruce Banner who is much more than he seems. Together, Philip, Clint, Darcy, and Bruce might be the beginning of a new team of heroes to face the coming storm. </p><p>This story will include the POVs of Darcy, Bruce, Clint, and Philip. There will be both het and slash included. </p><p>This is the second in the Bonds of Old Trilogy. Check the first story to read Philip & Clint's beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> The story thus far: 
> 
> Magic, dragons, sorcerers, bonded pairs were just myths and legends of the Midlands, stories told to amuse and entertain. But a darkness was growing in the Argoth Mountains and newly made Lord Clint Barton's family lands were right on the edge of the danger. He hoped his marriage to Philip Coulson, thane of the powerful Lord Fury, would bring the money and experience to make repairs to the devastated holding. What he didn't expect was that Philip was the first mage born in generations and that he himself had magical abilities which, when joined with Philip, were strong enough to stand against the likes of Prince Loki of Asgard. Completing an old ritual, they bonded their lives and powers together, along with the abilities of the others who follow them. Fighting off revenants and wargs, they chased down the most famous myth of all, Lord Rogers and Thane Barnes, just steps ahead of the minions of an evil sorcerer. They finally found Rogers' shield in an underground cavern and met a not quite dead Thane Barnes. 
> 
> With the shield in hand, they now must continue looking for the rest of the Lord Rogers' armor, scattered by his thanes after his fall, if they hope to have a chance against the next wave of the battle for the Midlands.

_**PROLOGUE** _

**Excerpts from Albert Coulson’s _The Real Paladin_ :**

… Thus, when compounding the unusual weather patterns sparked by the magical forces in play and the winter storms that regularly shifted the winds from their Northward flow, it is obvious that a dragon, with even the largest wing span, would be hard pressed to make a flight of the length necessary. The wind stream would require almost double the time for an Eastern route, and, as we’ve seen, the oldest texts agree that the Red Sorcerer’s pet was wounded just four days prior by the combined might of Lord Rogers and the magic of Lady Carter, a wound that “splattered blue venomous blood across the landscape as he fled, crashing through the trees in a ground retreat, tail pounding on the earth.”[1]

Creston the Venerable’s theory of two dragons, based primarily upon a very obscure manuscript that has since disappeared in the fire that consumed the Metheim Library and Museum in Burosey during the hydra attack and the ensuing battle, doesn’t hold up under close scrutiny. Were there a mother and a baby, there would be many more reports of lost livestock in the foothills; the royal exchequer’s ledgers are full of requests for reparations from the area, but two dragons would significantly increase the amount foodstuff needed to survive the cold winter, and, exponentially, raise the cost of the government’s war effort.  Any notice of more than one dragon escaped the weather eye of Ernest Pyle, the most prolific of the journal writers of the time. With seven full copies of his war time memoirs still in existence with fragments in twenty-two other holdings, both public and individual, Pyle remains the most trustworthy source of history from the time. Despite the bare bone structure and unusual conversational tone[2], Pyle catalogues magical events and mythical creatures as truth, and he details only one dragon during the two years of the most intense fighting. Creston’s theory, we can safely assert, is nothing more than conjecture to cover for the impossible distance he wants to believe Rogers traveled in that fatal flight.

… Lake Caldera, high in the Argoth Mountains, fits all the criteria of the four accounts of Lord Rogers’ death.  Its location is within the circle established as the possible flight radius as well as near to both Borosey and Asgard to allow for the quick travel time of the reinforcements. The sheer cliffs and limited access to the crater would make it difficult to find the exact location of the crash and the excessive depth would allow for the impossibility of recovering the body … Add to this Webster’s annotations to his manuscript version of his poem that establish beyond a shadow of a doubt that the creation of the sea plunge was for entertainment value and done at his patron’s behest[3], this author must conclude that Lake Caldera is the most logical choice for the resting place of Lord Stephen Rogers …

 

**Excerpt from _The Death of the Red Sorcerer,_ Ellsmere Manuscript, private collection of Lord Howard Stark.**

She wove them together, strength and skill and magic,

Mage-singer, uniter, standing in front of the ranks,

Not afraid to lead, to step into the role left open

When the loyal thane fell, a gaping wound in the warrior’s side.

 

Still the seekers-of-death came, twin red glows

As they slithered through the night towards their prey.

Sword and shield held, but flesh grew weary,

Many limbs were hewn and good men fell beneath the rusty blades.

 

Heart-torn, she held the line with deeds of such valor

That even the dead gave way to her righteous anger.

Words of challenge as sharp as dagger’s point,

Her voice pushed them back and opened the way.

 

[1] L. Richardson Montague. “The Chronicles of Dernier.” Volume VII. Hepplewhite Manuscript. The Royal Archives.

[2] Pyle is an interesting study in technique, far different from the usual flourishes and overwrought prose of the age. With his reliance on what he asserts are facts and details, Pyle’s accounts offer a very insightful view of the heroes involved, presenting them as flawed people rather than the larger-than-life characters of other tales. This has been a reason to discount Pyle’s journals, but that is not an argument for here. What is undeniable is that Pyle’s account agrees on all the basics with the two other main writers of the time, King Reul and Ernway.

[3] There is no doubt that John Webster’s self-avowed translations were nothing more than pure embellishment. In his play, _The Tragdye of the Duchesse of Malfy_ , Webster takes the short and sad life of Lady Jane Grey and creates a violent, macabre tale of incest, death, and sickness. His focus on selling tickets and pleasing his patron, the Lord of the Revels, Webster writes honestly in his own daily journals about adding spice and sex to his tales. To believe in Webster’s Lord Stephen Rogers, characterized by his super human stamina and fierce battle lust, is to take a fictional personification created for the stage and treat it as history. Such should be obvious by the almost blasphemous suggestion that Lord Rogers had an extra-marital affair with Thane Carter that resulted in children. Equally egregious is the notion that Lord Rogers and Thane Barnes shared a bed with Thane Carter. Webster’s enduring popularity is a sign of nothing more than the prurient interest of the masses.


	2. Old As Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lady Darcy Lewis, thane of Lord Fury, is having the strangest dreams. Bruce Banner, Clerk of the Desert Order, is struggling to keep his inner self in check now that he has a place to belong and friends that welcome him into their lives.
> 
> Both of their lives are about to change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Darcy here is my own creation. There's so little to work with in the MCU except for her sassiness. I'm going to try to keep her voice and still work within the confines of epic fantasy like the first Bonds of Old story. 
> 
> For those of you who have read the first one, don't fear. There will be Phil & Clint yummy goodness in this story; they'll get their own viewpoints. I figure, hey, George R. R. Martin can have a blue trillion POVs, I can manage 4 right?
> 
> Yeah. Expect some Disney references in here because I want Darcy as a Disney Princess. She's the BAMF we deserve.

Darcy Elizabeth Lewis, youngest daughter of Lord Nicholas Fury, stormed down the hallway and into the solar, wishing she had a door to slam behind her. She could flounce with the best of them, but she was wearing her riding pants so there was no skirt to fling as she dropped down into the chair by the window. Picking up a book from the table, she flipped aimlessly through the pages, not looking at the text; huge gusty sighs fell from her lips as the wan light of the late autumn sun filtered through the glass.

“Your meeting did not go well, I take it,” the other woman in the room asked. Glancing up from the parchment she was working on translating, her ink stained fingers left long black smears as she pushed her brown hair back behind her ears. More interested in what she was reading, she immediately went back to scratching her quill across a clean piece of paper.

“Gods, Jane, Maria is stuck in the last century. She says my pants are too provocative, that the men complain when I wear them.” Darcy shut the book with a satisfying thump. “Can you imagine? Just because they can’t think out of their pants and I’m stuck with skirts.”

“They are very tight, as you yourself remarked this morning,” Jane reminded her. Everything about Jane Foster said she was a gentlewoman, from her quiet voice to the way she knew when to speak and when to slip into the background. Darcy had never really learned that skill. Her first response was to plough forward without looking; Jane, having been Darcy’s friend for years, was the one who often tried to keep her on an even keel. “I believe you said you particularly enjoyed the way that Guardsman Quartermain’s young apprentice oogled your … what did you call it?” 

Darcy scrunched her nose at Jane. The budding scholar had a wicked sense of humor, hidden beneath her courtly manners. Anyone who knew Jane well had felt the sting of her wit or, if they were unlucky, the lash of her anger, usually reserved for those who thought a woman had no place at the University or studying the stars. A few years older than Darcy, Jane was brilliant; she’d had to fight every step of the way against prejudices not just because of her gender but because she was from an impoverished family, distantly related to Darcy’s. Had Darcy not been chosen as Fury’s heir, Jane probably never would have been accepted into her field of study. But Darcy brought Jane to Tarian Castle as her companion, Fury had met her and, to settle it, Lord Stark became instantly enamored with Jane’s theories. And no one said no to the combined voices of Fury and Stark.

“My assets? Well, yes. When one is gifted with lushness like this, who am I to keep it to myself?” Darcy didn’t understand the seemingly arbitrary rules and regulations for being female; what did how you dressed have to do with whether you were competent or nice? She certainly didn’t believe that one body was beautiful and another plain just because of the vagarities of birth. Jane took after the Foster side of the family; slim and petite, light brown hair that fell straight as silk, and a lovely pixie-like face. Darcy, on the other hand, took after her mother, a Cross from the foothills. Full breasts, a smaller waist, generous curves for hips and another set for her thighs. Her hair was brown and tended to curl or frizz depending upon the humidity. Wide blue eyes and plump lips, Darcy was a far cry from the current fashion trends of flat chests and boyish hips. She preferred to be able to breathe than have a wasp-thin waist and she refused to even have one of those metal contraptions women at court put under their dresses to create a more generous curve in the back. Her ass was very nice as is; why would she make it bigger?

Jane didn’t answer, just arched one eyebrow then looked back down at her work. She knew the truth, Darcy’s deepest doubts about her own usefulness, and she’d told Darcy her opinion many times. Just how Darcy fit into the diversity that was her family was an ongoing deep-seated worry. Her older sister, Maria, petite with dark hair and ocean blue eyes, was a genius when it came to strategy, leading all of Fury’s forces with efficiency and just the right touch of compassion. Watching Maria spar, Darcy was fiercely proud of the way Maria could take down any opponent, male or female, so amazingly confident in her abilities. For the longest time, Darcy thought to follow in Maria’s footsteps, wanted to be that calm and collected strong woman. She’d practiced swordplay, tried so many different weapons, but she wasn’t Maria who made it all look effortless. She could defend herself or hold her own in a fight, but Darcy was never going to be a warrior.

Her older brother, Philip, newly married and, from what she’d been told, blissfully happy with his husband, was the picture of cool leadership and organization. The man could run fourteen households without breaking a sweat and still kick ass with his short swords. If Maria was effortless, Philip was never tiring, everywhere at once, getting vast amounts of work done in impossibly short times. Of all of her siblings, Darcy felt a kinship to Philip’s abilities; she, too, could get people to follow her orders, but she took a different tack than Phil. He was respected, intelligent, almost revered. She was bossy, funny, and one of the guys.  Not exactly the way to earn the trust of the people, as Lord Fury lectured her just two weeks ago. Darcy had argued back that she was pretty damn good at increasing morale, but Fury wasn’t impressed. She almost always lost arguments with Fury and Maria because they rarely listened to her ideas which, she’d admit, were sometimes odd.  She did get things done around the castle – she was the only one who could get all the pages to behave at the same time – maybe not the way Lord Fury would do it, but when she set her mind to it, she could make things happen.

Then there was Peter, her younger brother, who was brains and speed all rolled into one body. He’d been accepted into early admission at the University beginning with the next term, quite a coup on his part. And he was the best hand-to-hand fighter even at his young age, beating some of the veteran fighters they had in the ranks with his flexibility. She could even admire his climbing talent since he often snagged food from the kitchen in the middle of the night and shared with her. If he could only control his mouth, he’d end up being the next Lord of Mons Tarian. Peter was going to be a leader of high quality when he got older; Darcy, on the other hand, was going to end up married to a Lord and playing Lady of the Manor. That didn’t seem a fair trade to her.

The mouth thing was something Darcy had in common with Peter. As long as she could remember, people had warned her to watch what she said. Thoughts flew straight from her head and right out of her lips before she really had a chance to review them. Words, to her, had a life of their own, demanding to be spoken or written. The wittier the phrase, the more likely she was to toss it out. All of her emotions were bound up in words. When she was angry, she spoke the truth without hesitation. When she was upset, her mouth was like a knife, slashing and cutting. When she was sad, her words ground to a halt, trapped behind her face and in her throat. If she made a declaration, she stood by it. Her words were that important to her.

Her grandfather, Thane Raymond Lewis, had been the one who pulled her aside when she was a little girl and given her The Talk. Capital letters. The. Talk. About the history of their family and their … ability he’d called it in a hushed voice. How great, great, and a few more greats was an important person in history who had … yes, he whispered the word … magic. Nothing big, mind you, he’d rushed on to say, just a little bit of hedge wizardry, making a few potions or love charms. But, he cautioned, they never spoke of it and no Lewis child had stained the family name in over ten generations with any skill that could remotely be considered magic.

Coming to Fury’s household had been an eye opening experience for Darcy. Within a few weeks, she’d known that Philip had a special talent; despite his best efforts, Darcy caught him discharging energy on multiple occasions. The impulse to ignore it and hide behind polite social dialogue might have worked if Darcy had any filters on her mouth. Instead, she’d made a running joke out of it, and the private connection had made her feel much more at home than any welcome parties Fury had thrown. And there was no way Peter could crawl up the side of the castle wall without being more than normal. Maybe that was Darcy’s problem, she’d admit sometimes late at night to herself. All the family secrets and hush-hush about the inherited magic and she was as mundane as a person came. The talent must really have been bred out of the family years ago. Plain old Darcy surrounded by unique people.

“Something’s bothering you the last few days.” Jane put her quill down and focused her attention on Darcy, who realized she’d fallen silent long enough to raise Jane’s curiosity. “Since I’ve been back from school.”

Jane was so good at that, just letting Darcy decide what to share. Pushing up from the chair, Darcy walked to the large window, the stained glass casting the afternoon sun into patches of distorted color on the already brightly patterned rug. Darcy loved to sit and watch the way they interacted and changed at different parts of the day. The window depicted a rose in a glass jar, protected and yet withering slowly, petals falling. A very ancient love story, or so she was told. No one seemed to know exactly what that story was anymore. It was gone from memory just like the Lewis family magic.

“A little over a month ago there was a … wind or wave or weather change or some such thing. Maria and Peter felt it too, like the temperature dropped twenty degrees in a minute. A tug, or pull, or… I can’t really describe it but for the world it felt like something was yanking a part of me out to drag it away.” She sighed; no matter how she tried, she couldn’t make sense of it. “I had this… waking dream … about Philip. I saw him falling into darkness. Since then, I’ve had others, sometimes at night, sometimes during the day. Philip at what I think is Barton Manor. Another man that I believe might be Prince Loki; I asked Maria and her description matches.”

“Premonitions? You think you’re seeing the future?” Jane didn’t judge, just came up behind Darcy and put a hand on her shoulder.

“I don’t think so. I was flying with Philip on a red dragon in one of them.” Darcy smiled at that. “I was joking with him about his handsome new husband as if we flew together every day.”

“All right, dragons do make a literal interpretation difficult,” Jane conceded with a smile. “What else do you dream? Maybe they are prophetic.”

“You say that as if you believe such things happen.” Darcy knew Jane was a proponent of science, not magic.

“I’ve never said people didn’t have talents, just that there is probably a logical explanation for them rather than magic. Besides, one of my professors says that dreams are where we work out our problems, the things we can’t talk about out loud.”

“Then I have a lot of things to work out,” Darcy said, thinking of her dreams. “One of the recurring ones is that I’m dancing with Prince Loki, I’m not sure where, but I’m wearing a court dress and there’s a string quartet playing. His hands are like ice, freezing cold, making me shiver then his eyes begin to glow blue.”

“Oh,” Jane replied, at a loss for a reply. “I see. Well. That’s unusual.”

“I know. I wake up chilly, looking for the covers or a blanket which, as you know, is unusual for me; I am always too warm, even in the dead of winter.” Last time Darcy had dreamt about Loki, he’d done more than just dance, had twisted her hands behind her back and whispered in her ear in a language she didn’t understand, the threat clear. She woke, trembling, fighting for breath and speaking a long line of twisting syllables that faded even as she gave them voice.

“The Prince did offer for Philip’s hand and was turned down. You worry enough about your own marriage prospects. Could you be conflating the two?”

Smart Jane, of course, went right to the heart of the matter. Darcy had been angry at the thought of Philip marrying the Prince because she was downright terrified of the day when Lord Fury called her into his study to announce who her future husband would be. Not that she expected him to foist her off into a terrible union … for all she complained about Fury, he did his best by her and would never let her be hurt … no, she feared an achingly empty marriage like the one her parents had, two people who lived completely separate lives and cared nothing for the other or the child they dutifully created as part of the contract they’d signed. When her father’s brother had a son, her parents gave up even the pretense of a connection and went back to their own families, dumping Darcy with grandparents more interested in the growing number of cousins in the household than one lonely little girl.

“What, be worried about my future husband? I’m the catch of this generation, haven’t you heard?” She’d overheard that phrase the last time she was at court, whispered between two mothers of eligible sons. The second half of the phrase she tried desperately to forget. The catch of this generation if he has a firm hand and can put up with her sass. “Honestly, I think it’s about more earthy topics. I also dream about a man with the most incredible eyes and calloused hands; I won’t be telling Maria what goes on in those dreams anytime soon.”

Just mentioning the mystery man stirred the heat between her legs, her breasts aching as they rubbed against the fabric of her linen binding. Because of her size, she often wore various undergarments to contain them and one of the best of the dreams had been the man’s hands unwinding the soft cotton until he’d freed them for his mouth to explore.

“Oh.” Jane was blushing; Darcy didn’t have to turn to know it. They’d both had suitors before, so it wasn’t as if Darcy had never kissed a man, but what happened in the dreams was much more than a kiss. There were colors that spiraled around them, storms crashing overhead, all like something from one of those dreadful romantic poems the girls at court loved so much. Where a dashing hero rides in and saves damsel in distress, tales that made Darcy want to hurl every copy in the fireplace. She routinely asked every bard and minstrel she met for a song about a strong woman who saves a man. So far, in her nineteen years of life, she’d found a grand total of three, and they were all very, very old.

No, Darcy wasn’t going to ask Maria about sex ever again. Once was enough. After clearing her throat, stuttering, starting over three times, Maria had sent her to Philip who gave her a book that explained the physical part before warning her for twenty-two pages about the repercussions of pregnancy.  Sometimes she wished she was like Philip and drawn to others of her same gender; babies wouldn’t be a worry then. She could choose her children just like Fury did and enjoy her marital bed without paying attention to her month-by-month warning system. Choosing children. Now that Philip was married, would he and his husband do that? The image of Phil with younglings clinging to him and running around his feet made Darcy smile.

“Maybe I just need to find a man myself. Someone to dance with so I’ll quit dreaming about Philip’s marriage, a Prince and a mystery lover.” Darcy thought that sounded good. 

“Dance with or _dance_ with?” Jane asked with a nudge of her hand. It was a running joke between them about their limited experience; just because they were both virgins didn’t mean they didn’t know about the mechanics of the act. Philip’s library was also supplied with some very erotic texts; Darcy was sure Philip meant her to find them when she went looking for history books to do her school work. After all, it was a nice way to teach her without having the discussion out loud.

“Either or both. Both would be good,” Darcy replied with a laugh.

* * *

 

“Let’s try the sword next.” Lord Philip Coulson-Barton picked up and turned the Toledo steel blade over in his hand. “The dagger was better than anything else we’ve worked with.”

Bruce Banner moved a step away from the iron anvil in the center of the smithy. They’d spent the morning grounding Philip’s magic into different materials to help him channel his abilities. The first mage to develop in generations, Philip had virtually nothing to build upon as he tried to learn about his power. Between the two of them, they were managing to muddle along with the help of a selection of very old books they’d found carefully preserved underground. Solomon’s grimoire was a gold mine of spells, but treatise by a wizard named Dresden was the treasure of the group; it explained the basics of how magic worked. Bruce had read it three times in the weeks since it came into their possession and each time he marveled at how concise and well-written it was; as if the author was sitting in the same room, the explanations were straightforward and not at all the flowery style Bruce was used to reading. Dresden even had a sense of humor that Bruce found refreshing.

“Start slow. We don’t know how the area and mass will affect the magic,” Bruce suggested. First Dresden lesson – magic needs to be channeled. In its raw form, it is very dangerous. For a mage, who could shape energy by force of thought and will, it was even more important to narrow the focus.

With intense concentration, Philip rested the short sword on his open palms and closed his eyes. Purple tendrils curled along the shaft, little static charges occasionally sparking. The hilt, with its open pommel waiting for a stone or decoration to be added, began to vibrate, creating a very low level hum.

“Think about what you want the sword to do, an attribute. Sharpness, balance, evenly distributed weight …” Bruce offered. The idea was to take the excess magic that bled from Philip like exhaled air and find a way to safely ground it. He truly didn’t believe Philip would create a magical weapon, but it couldn’t hurt. Iron and steel were good conductors.

“A matched set,” Philip said, reaching for the second short sword and touching it with two fingers. Magic flowed into it as well. “Perfectly balanced. Stronger together than apart.”

That description fit Philip and his new husband, Lord Clint Barton.  Bonded now, another first, the two strengthened each other by being close; side-by-side, their energies had held against a much more powerful adversary, Prince Loki of Asgard. A marriage of convenience turned into a true love match, they had managed to draw Bruce out of his self-imposed isolation and include him in the team they were building.

“The swords or you and Clint?” Bruce asked, teasing a bit, a little surprised he had friends _to_ tease. Years ago, Bruce had made a normal life impossible for himself; few would associate with him, much less call him friend. And yet, Philip and Clint and the others here had welcomed him with open arms even after they knew Bruce’s humiliating secret.

At the mention of his husband’s name, the energy grew in power until both swords hummed the same tune. “He’s almost home,” Philip said, eyes hazy for a few seconds as he reached out to Clint. “He’s happy, so that bodes well for the McCarter reconstruction efforts.”

“And for your evening as well, I hazard. You’ve been working yourself to the bone with your projects; you need some rest.” The argument was already well-worn between them. Philip was born to get things done, his easy style of leadership making him well-loved and respected. In the months he’d been at Barton Manor, Philip had made long strides towards rebuilding the estate. Marred still from an attack two and a half years ago, the house and grounds had languished until Clint returned home to claim the title; he’d started the revitalization and Philip had accelerated it. The room they were in was the perfect example. After fixing the Manor’s roof and having a raising party for the new Guard House, Philip pinpointed a location for magical experimentation. The blacksmith’s walls needed shoring up; putting up new rooms at the same time added only two more days to the work. The studio was far away from the main house and the town, down near the practice field, with enough of a blast radius to do minimal damage to other structures.

“We need to take advantage of the warm snap to get as much done before winter hits us.” Laying the swords on the table, Philip absently rubbed his hands together. “We’ve laid out the new wing; if we have another week like this, we can get the apothecary roofed and weather tight for you to work out of until Spring.”

Bruce felt the surge of energy as a tickle at the back of his neck; Philip turned and looked out the window towards the road. Riders approached, and Bruce recognized Clint in the lead. As if he knew, Clint’s eyes tracked to the right and found Philip. With an almost audible snap, power radiated between the two and Bruce caught the edges, his connection to the pair tugging at his consciousness. Drawn out the door, they both headed to the courtyard in front of the Manor, arriving just as the horses drew to a halt.

For the last two weeks, Clint had visited Caine’s Cross to McCarter Hall, checking in on his holders who were recovering. Both locations had suffered losses in the last month, attacked by the unthinkable – undead humans and mountain wargs, controlled by an evil sorcerer. Clint worried about being a good Lord Holder, that he wasn’t trained or raised to be in the position, but the man had a good heart and was a natural born leader. The faithfulness of his mercenary company who had accompanied him here and settled into new roles spoke volumes about their loyalty. And the fact that Clint hadn’t thrown Bruce out the first time he transformed, well, there weren’t many people who were as open minded.

The people of Barton’s holding were the most accepting Bruce had ever met. Maybe it was their distance from the Capitol and the University, at the base of the mountains that signaled the border of the Midlands, or maybe it was just the down-to-earth lifestyles they led. Either way, most of them didn’t blink twice when Bruce went berserk during an attack; Melinda McCarter, in fact, had shrugged and said she was grateful Bruce was around, not the reaction Bruce was used to. Ever since the accident that changed him, Bruce had been hiding, preferring isolation to the stares of judgmental people. Here, he’d found a community that wanted him; he hardly believed it most days.

Reining his horse to a stop, Clint dismounted and handed Lucky off to the waiting groom, not pausing in his strides towards Philip, a wide smile on his face. A hand cradled Philip’s neck and then Clint was kissing his husband, heedless of the onlookers and wolf whistles. Just watching their bodies melt together, moving in harmony, was enough to stir heat in Bruce’s gut; the magical pull of the two spilled over to Bruce as well. As the energy built, Bruce felt the Other inside of him wake up and take note of the proceedings. It had been a long time since anyone had kissed him like that; he’d enforced his own abstinence to avoid any entanglements that might bring him to the notice of the Men of Letters or others.

“You had a good trip, I take it,” Philip said, his voice more than a little breathy. 

“The McCarters are doing well; Melinda tried to fatten me up. Her sons are waiting on her hand and foot, not letting her walk on her ankle,” Clint replied with a laugh. His hands were still about Philip’s waist, holding him close. “Singer packed you some new books he found. He’s chomping at the bit to see the grimoire. I invited him to come for Michaelmas.”

“Good thing the stable rooms are ready. Sounds like a full house for the holy days.” Philip shook his head fondly. “We might be sleeping outdoors if the weather holds.”

“Under the stars?” Clint wiggled his eyebrows, such open sexuality that Bruce felt a pang of desire to be that free with his emotions. “Sounds like a plan. But right now, I’m looking forward to whatever Dax has prepared for dinner and a really hot bath.”

“A pot of something that smells wonderful.” Philip started for the manor house, his hand twined with Clint’s. “And I’ve got something to show you. We’ve started the foundation and are laying in the plumbing pipe …”

Bruce watched them walk away, jealousy flaring green on the edges of his vision. The emotion rolled in his stomach, churned up others; he knew where this was leading and he tamped down, shoving the feelings back into their box. Too long, too needy, he felt the upheaval in his chest.

 _Lots of good women here_ , the Other rumbled, stretching himself inside Bruce’s skin. _Strong and willing. I can ..._

 _Stop it,_ Bruce thought. _I’m not letting you out_. He didn’t trust his other self, all that violence, anger and passion, unfettered and unchecked. All the parts of himself he had to get under control.

 _The Thanes could handle me_ , he growled,so deep and sensual that Bruce’s cock throbbed in response. _Carol likes me. Natasha’s very flexible and Jessica’s so strong. Bet she could take a hard …_ Bruce exerted his control, shoving the Other into submission with sheer will. _No._

“Bruce? Are you alright?” Andrew balanced on his crutches, his leg splinted so the bones grew back together the right way.

“Woolgathering,” he replied, so used to lying to cover up the struggle that he didn’t have to think. “How are you doing?”

Andrew had been wounded in the run up to the battle at McCarter Hall; he’d been dragged from his horse trying to help Melinda. Stepping up to the challenges, Andrew had gone from resistant of Philip’s arrival to a hero in his own right; Bruce was more than impressed by him. Without Prince Loki’s aid, Andrew would have died from his injuries; Loki liked to play both sides or maybe he was just playing his own game the whole time. Befriending the camp follower turned groomsman had seemed like an honest effort on Loki’s part, but Bruce wasn’t sure what the angle was for the Prince.

 _He could handle me,_ the Other mumbled, whether about Andrew or Loki Bruce didn’t know, then subsided. Bruce had always preferred women, but the Other had little to no scruples when it came to killing or sex. Not that Bruce didn’t know friend from foe when he changed, the problem was the Other simply knew what he wanted and did it without worry about the consequences.

“Finally able to come home,” Andrew answered then he laughed, his eyes alight with his good mood. “Home. Haven’t had one of those in … well, a really long time.”

“I understand,” Bruce said. He did. Clint and Philip had given him the first chance to put down roots in a forever. And he really wanted to believe that maybe, just maybe, this could be his home too.

Dinner was ready in short order; half the town turned up to hear the gossip and to eat Dax’s cooking although Rachel’s desserts were fast becoming a draw as well.  As usual, Bruce sat at the head table just down from Philip, between Samuel Wilson the tinker and Jessica Drew, one of Clint’s thanes. Tonight, the excitement of discovering the mythical Lord Rogers’ shield made good dinner table conversation; the talk turned to the plan to continue the search for the other missing parts of his armor. Theories abounded about where to look next and Bruce was more than happy to join in with his own ideas over the fragrant dish of chicken served as the main course. Garlicky goodness with Dax’s signature spices, a rich red gravy with beans and onions, Bruce ate all of his and took a second helping when the girl came around again with more. A curious flat bread, charred lightly, was served with it, a round for each guest to dip in the rich sauce. If he wasn’t careful, Bruce was going to start gaining weight; he wasn’t used to eating this well on a daily basis

Holding his own court at one of the long trestle tables, Andrew winked at Bruce when he caught his eye before returning to the story he was regaling the others with. “He’s recovering,” Jessica noted catching the motion. “We all are, despite everything. Like one of those puzzles where the picture comes together once the pieces are connected correctly.”

“Indeed,” Bruce agreed. He flicked a gaze to where Philip and Clint had their heads together, a slow blush burning its way up Philip’s neck. “We are.”

“Still,” she began then hesitated before dropping the level of her voice. “I can’t help but think something’s about to go wrong. Can’t put my finger on it, but it’s like that calm right before a storm.”

“We punched them in the nose. They’re not going to let us get away without retribution. Honestly, I’m surprised we’ve had the month or so of peace.” Every morning he woke, Bruce half expected another attack. He’d been dreaming of one every night. Bloody battles with familiar faces and sightless eyes. Those were almost as disturbing as his other dreams, the ones with soft hands on his face, trailing curls on his skin, warm mouth against his, and plump lips along his neck.

“This is different. You’ve been in battle; you know that moment when suddenly there’s no opponent in front of you and you look around for another? That itch between your shoulder blades that says the next round has begun and you missed it. Usually right before a sword sinks into your flesh.” Jessica’s eyes were slightly unfocused, Bruce realized with a shiver. This wasn’t just idle talk; she was having a premonition and Bruce had learned to trust Jessica’s hunches. She was never wrong when she sensed trouble.

“Something’s happened and the next wave’s begun,” Bruce repeated. Yes, that made sense. Loki would come at them sideways; a frontal assault was the Red Knight’s way.

“Natasha’s gone. Left last week,” Jessica confided. Another of Clint’s thanes, Natasha Romanov’s gift was gathering knowledge. She knew everything, coming and going on her own schedule. If she was away, she was on the hunt, and heaven bless the person she had in her sights.

“I’m leaving tomorrow as well,” Samuel added. He’d been wounded bringing them warning of the attack and was another who owed his life to the Asgardian Prince. Bruce realized not long after they were introduced that Samuel was more than a traveling tinker; if he had to guess, Bruce would say a tinker’s wagon was the perfect cover for covert information gathering. The fact that Philip vouched for Samuel told Bruce a lot about who the tinker reported to. “I want to take advantage of the weather to get a last swing through Stark land before the snow comes.”

Odds were Samuel would bring back stories and children’s rhymes for them to parse and take apart about Lord Rogers and his men. So much truth found in family tales and the mouths of babes. All they’d forgotten over the long span of centuries frustrated Bruce. Once, they’d known about magic and the dangers it brought; now they were no more than babes themselves, learning fast and making many mistakes.

Dessert passed by, steaming hot apple dumplings with sweet cream icing, and Bruce took one, slicing into it to let it cool. “I hear Lord Stark is quite the character,” he said. Actually, Bruce had always been intrigued by the man, one of the youngest Lords. Rumor had it that Anthony Stark was brilliant, mercurial in mood, quite jovial one moment then obsessively fixated the next. While at the University, Bruce had thought to follow Stark’s path, but his own talent had been not in the building of machines, but the more abstract theory of power.

“A character.” Samuel snorted at that description. “Tony Stark is a big kid who happens to be the smartest man of our age. If you don’t expect anything from him, you’ll be perfectly good company for him. I hear, though, that he has a new chatelaine who is reining him in; he has actually been holding court as scheduled for the last few months. I can’t wait to meet this amazing woman.”

“You know Stark?” Jessica leaned past Bruce to ask.

“Stark pretty much paid for my wagon with all the strange and exotic things he’s bought. Any time I find an item I’ve never seen before, I know Stark will want it. He’s more than just a collector; he’ll take them apart to understand what makes them work, build them back and make them better,” Sam answered.

Just then Clint and Philip rose from their chairs and a rumble rolled through the hall. Holding Philip’s hand, Clint saluted the room and led his husband off; applause broke out from the company’s table and the others joined in, ushering the two off with the blessing of the assembly. Everyone was thrilled to see the obvious happiness between the two Lords;  a good marriage translated to a successful holding and there was no doubt between Clint’s leadership and Philip’s management, Barton Manor and the surrounding towns were on their way to being plentiful again.

Once the Lords had left, Bruce made his farewell. Pleasantly full, hunger sated, a few glasses of rich red wine, and Bruce found it harder to deny the desires of the Other in the dark. Wrestling with his own inner demon was best done alone. He made the short walk to his room quickly, nodding at Annamarie, the manor’s chatelaine, before ducking in his door and shutting it behind him. Soon, he hoped, he’d have his own space; he didn’t need much for himself, just a bed tucked in the corner and some workspace. The apothecary would do for a start.

Now, however, he had one of the rooms in the manor, the farthest on the end of the corridor, easy to come and go unseen. A place of honor, he knew, since rooms were scarce as the renovations proceeded, many doubled and even tripled up in every available space. At least the roof had been fixed, making the second floor inhabitable after running off a family of raccoons and numerous birds that had nested in the broken rafters. Philip and Clint kept the largest room on the first floor, primarily for sentimental reasons, Bruce suspected, but the official word was they wanted to move only once, waiting instead for their expanded suite in the new wing.

He wasn’t really sleepy. Picking up the book he’d left on the table by the fireplace, he settled in the armchair, feet upon the stool, and began reading the journal he’d found in the cave, one of a series by a contemporary reporter of the events during Lord Rogers era. Not for the first time, Bruce wished he could talk to Ernest Pyle and ask the growing list of questions he had in his head. To truly know what it was like then and to understand what was happening now, that was why he was a scholar at heart. He loved knowledge, history, and art, the quiet pursuits of an intellectual life were what he lived for.

The Other rolled over in Bruce’s chest, a scoffing laugh sounding in his head.  _If you repeat that often enough, one day you might believe it._

* * *

 

Kicking off the covers, Darcy stared at the underside of her bed’s canopy, the pattern seeming to move the longer she looked at it. Sleep escaped her despite her best efforts to chase it down. Linen tangled around her legs, trapping her until she lifted up and pulled her gown free, bunching it around her waist. The banked fire gave out too much heat; the maid had expected temperatures to drop, but if anything, it was getting warmer. For once, she was glad she’d put her long hair in a braid before going to bed; the tendrils that escaped were sticking to her forehead and cheeks.

She thought of a cold wintery day with a breeze that whipped icy across her skin. Diving into the waters of Hidden Lake, goosebumps rising on her arms and legs.  Hair standing on end, sensitive to the brush of fingers along her arms, little shivers as he breathed into the cleft between her breasts, cooling the beads of sweat before the tip of his tongue darted out to catch them, one after the other, the lightest of touches. She sighed, eyes drifting closed; his chuckle sent a tremor through her flesh and her nipple hardened. Tendrils of a different kind of heat ran down her belly and pooled beneath her legs as he rubbed his body against her, hard length tucked in the curve of her hip. She wound her hands in his hair, tilted her head back and bit her lip to keep from crying out when his mouth found the stiff nub, sucking it into the warm wetness and curling his tongue around …

“Oh.” Her eyes flew open as her pulse throbbed in her most private parts, an ache that made her shift and twist.  Without thinking, her hand slid between her thighs, palm pressed hard. Almost every night now, she dreamed of him, his touch, his smell, his mouth and she lay frustrated and unfulfilled. Tonight, her fingers slipped under the hem of her undergarment, between the folds of skin, and touched herself. She didn’t believe what the books taught about what a Lady did and didn’t do. This felt good, to relieve her own needs as she imagined her phantom lover tasting her.  To the devil with what it meant to be a Lady.

She’d never gone this far before, but this unusual feeling in her stomach that made her open her mouth and pant for breath. She slid a finger inside, stroking until a burst of pleasure jolted through her, leaving her gasping. In that moment, she saw him, silhouetted by the light from the fireplace, face a study in shadow as he leaned down to drop a kiss on the corner of her lips.

“Mine,” he whispered.

She lay awake for a long time, sleep impossible as she pondered what it meant.

* * *

 

He woke with a start, book sliding of his lap and hitting the floor with a thump, aroused far past the point of comfort. Snatches of his dream floated before him: her body framed beneath him, painted by the flickering light of the fire; white linen of her gown, pushed up to reveal perfect pert breasts that tasted of sweat and smelled of vanilla; smooth skin of her thigh beneath his aching cock as he rocked over her; and green eyes gone hazy with her climax as she shuddered and gasped. Of its own accord, his hand dipped inside his pants and freed his cock; the pre-come provided lubricant for the quick tugs that brought him to the edge.  With a groan, he came, spilling into his hand as he heard the echo of her moans in his ears.

Lethargy settled over him as he relaxed. And yet, he was still unsatisfied, missing something to give him complete release. Inside, the Other stirred, not sated by the solitary moment. He pushed up, taking advantage of Bruce’s state to take control. Body grew, his muscles flexing, shirt ripping along the seams; the Berserker stood and kicked the chair away, was out the door and into the night, the scent of vanilla in his nostrils.

“Mine,” he said.

He just had to find her.

 


	3. No Place Like Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Tarian Castle under attack, Darcy has to use her wits to help save her friends and family, even if those friends are trying to hurt her. Good thing she can talk her way out of bad situations. Clint has lots of work to do, including presiding over longstanding feuds and trying to determine what's going on with Bruce who seems to be losing control of his Berserker.

It was a rare occurrence when Clint was awake before Philip. Up long before dawn, Philip was usually hard at work by the time Clint dragged himself into the kitchen for coffee and breakfast, and Clint was no slouch when it came to sleeping late. He happened to know that Philip could stay in bed – they’d rarely left it during the long three days they’d managed to eke out for a honeymoon – but Philip took his position as Lord of the manor very seriously, even more so because he believed he still needed to prove himself to the thanes and the people. As if saving Clint’s life twice, raising the guardhouse, and arranging the exceptional Fall Festival wasn’t enough to show his true colors, Philip felt he had to maintain a very high standard. Clint was glad to see Philip relaxing some when it came to affection and displaying his feelings. This wasn’t the royal court, but a holding where people valued real emotion rather than formal manners.

He propped himself up on one elbow and watched Philip’s chest rise and fall with slow easy breaths. The only light in the room came from the banked, glowing embers in the grate, and Philip’s face, turned towards Clint, was cast in shadows. Sprawled on his back, Philip took up more space than he had the first time they slept in the same bed when he’d been unsure of Clint’s reaction. Now, the two of them ended up tangled in the middle, bodies entwined together. Touch was a side effect of the bonding; they both rested better when they had hands on each other.

“You’re up early,” Philip mumbled, cracking his eyelids.

“Always up for you,” Clint replied, sliding his hand along the plane of Philip’s chest. “What do you have planned for today?”

“Apothecary, winterizing the practice field, the carpenter’s ready for a final run through of the new storeroom storage bins, and I’ve got a meeting with Annamarie and Mayor Garrett about the various holy days events. I think we’re hosting the Yule Banquet; Dax has a line on some Elysian Fields lamb. Mrs. Clarke brought some dried chilies back from her trip to visit her …”

Clint stopped him with a kiss, a slow exploration of Philip’s mouth, a perfect distraction they both enjoyed. This was Clint’s favorite way to start his day, licking along Philip’s bottom lip, fingertips grazing bare skin as he worked his way down to press along Philip’s cock. Last night’s lovemaking had taken the edge off of their weeks of separation, but Clint would never get enough. In the quiet before dawn, Philip still pliable from sleep, it was easy to fan the flames of desire with slow strokes over warm skin. Clint covered his claiming mark on Philip’s face with his hand, stirring the heat even more as his other hand lay atop the second mark on Philip’s hip. Reminders of the vows they made to each other, they had left literal handprints that centered their magic; even now, the hum of the music was starting in Clint’s head, keeping time with the undercurrent of their heartbeats. As he tasted Philip’s skin, running his mouth along the lines of corded muscles, Clint watched his husband’s half-opened eyes go unfocused. He licked at Philip’s nipples, teasing them with his lips, knowing how sensitive they were. A little moan and Philip kicked down the covers as Clint unlaced and freed Phil’s half-aroused cock, nibbling along the length before he took the whole in his mouth. The music swelled as Clint worked up and down, bringing Philip close.

“Umm.” Philip shook his head and tugged Clint back up to where he could kiss him. “Together.”

He fumbled Clint’s pants open and then their cocks slotted together; Philip wrapped a hand around them both and they thrust until Clint followed Philip over the edge. They lay there, Clint on top, his head buried in the curve of Philip’s neck, breathing heavy.

“Nothing exploded,” Clint mumbled, a grin spreading across his face. “That’s progress.”

“Maybe.” Philip slid his hands down to cup Clint’s ass; power flowed through the connection, the fire blazed up, and the room warmed. The magic rolled between them and Clint felt the bed shake, the heavy wooden frame moving. “Still has to go somewhere. I’m just getting better at directing it.”

“Be careful. You know your power turns me on. I might never let go …” Clint began. A knock sounded on the door; the servants had learned to wait before entering. Tugging up the quilt, Philip pushed Clint over onto his side of the bed.

“Come,” Philip called.

Marta brought in the morning tray of coffee, mugs, and a pitcher of fresh water. She didn’t look their way, just bustled quickly, removing the old ewer and the bundle of laundry before she bobbed her head in their direction and exited. Rolling off the bed, Philip went right for the hot liquid, pouring a cup and adding a spoonful of sugar.

“I see what’s most important,” Clint joked, joining Philip, taking the second mug his husband filled up for him.

“I’ve got a long day in store,” Philip replied. “Sex and coffee. This will hold me until lunch.”

Clint had his own list of things to get done. The reconstruction of the wall was going well; there were only two problematic sections left and the masons Philip hired had ideas that involved a buttress and tiers of earthworks to stabilize it. Since he’d been away, that meant disputes to be settled. There were always petitioners; cases ranged from the smallest of things – a question of a mother’s necklace bequeathed to a daughter-in-law instead of a daughter – to long running feuds that threatened to boil over. Clint’s brother Charles hadn’t bothered with his responsibility to dispense justice and then there was no Lord for two years, so the backlog was lengthy.  At first, Clint had worried that he wasn’t fit to pass judgment, but he was becoming more comfortable with the role. All he truly needed to do in most instances was listen and get the two parties to talk to each other; a solution usually emerged that both agreed upon. And when the situation was more complex, Philip had a wealth of experience to draw upon, and he was very good at saving Clint from making a mistake while making it appear it was all Clint’s idea.

More and more people filled the hall every morning; workers, guards, and servants ate at the tables, changing shifts and starting their days. Clint passed a table filled with sausage, fluffy biscuits, and a pot of warm cinnamon porridge that was flanked by a pile of meat rolls to fill lunch pouches. Annamarie flitted from one place to the next; the woman never seemed to sleep. She’d been a firecracker as a girl, when she and Clint used to play together if they weren’t fighting like cats and dogs. Now she was the scarily efficient chatelaine of Barton Manor.

Sitting alone at a table, Bruce Banner had a full bowl and two biscuits loaded with the spicy sausage patties. Clint saw the dark circles under the clerk’s eyes, the sag in his shoulders and knew. The berserker had come out again. Making a plate for himself, he sat down across the table and gave Bruce a nod. There was still so much they didn’t know about how Bruce’s affliction worked, what brought him out and how much Bruce remembered.  From what Clint had experienced firsthand, the Berserker wasn’t like the stories; he wasn’t a mindless killing machine. An amazingly strong fighter, someone Clint wouldn’t want to face alone in battle, the Berserker was intelligent and able to tell friend from foe, at least in the situations they’d faced. Bruce had saved lives at the risk of his own; for that, Clint would always see he had a place in his team.

“Philip’s going to be busy this afternoon; if you’re free, I would appreciate your counsel. I hear Evan Frasier has unearthed a new document to buttress his claim. Those damn lower forty acres again. They’re worth next to nothing and yet Stuart Ferguson is just as adamant that he owns them.” Clint ate as he spoke, being sure not to stare. “First time they brought it up, I suggested splitting it; that didn’t go over well.”

“I’ll make myself available,” Bruce said. He dropped his spoon into his empty bowl and ate a biscuit in two bites. Another sign that Bruce had changed; he needed to refuel his body afterwards. “Find out what’s underneath the feud. It’s not the land; I’d bet there’s something more. Until that is dealt with, the argument will continue.”

That was a good suggestion. Annamarie would probably know; that woman knew everything about everyone. Just like her mother always did. Some days, Clint missed Mary Dugan, a woman who had been as much a mother to him as his own. How Annamarie managed to live in the shadows of all who had died here, Clint didn’t know.

“And that’s why you are the clerk and I’m an archer,” Clint laughed. “You understand people better than I ever will.”

“No mystery, truthfully. People are driven by their emotions … love, hate, anger … much more so than logic and reason.” He pushed back from the table.  “And that makes all the danger; the heart reacts without thought. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my solitary bed is calling.”

“I’m sure Mayor Garrett has a daughter or two he’d be happy to have warm you up … and tie you down,” Clint joked. Bruce grimaced, but his mouth turned up at the edges. The mayor was obvious in his search for future son-in-laws.

“And suddenly I’m reminded how much I enjoy sprawling out across the mattress,” Bruce said as a parting shot.

* * *

 

Darcy wasn’t fond of mornings especially after a sleepless night like the one she’d had. Getting out of her warm bed at an early hour, she ran into people who were far too cheerful for her own quickly darkening mood. Knowing that she had a morning with Jasper working on shelving texts and learning to preserve them didn’t help. If she could read for fun, just enjoy the story, she’d work her way through all the books that interested her. But reading some moldy old history filled with how many chickens the kitchen used in a month and the payment schedules for the guard members made her fall asleep. Plus, the mold gave her sneezing fits and her eyes watered. With Philip gone, someone had to take over some of the duties which were nigh on impossible for one human to handle on their own. Poor Jasper tried, but he didn’t truly understand Philip’s filing system and Darcy did. So it was decided.

After that, though, she spent the afternoon hours at May Parker’s side, learning the ins and outs of running a castle as big as Tarian. She liked May; the woman was Peter’s birth aunt, but she was family as much as Fury’s chosen heirs. When Peter had come to the castle, so had she, and Philip recognized immediately May’s inner strength. Within six months, the aging manager, Wendell Vaughan, had decided to retire and May had stepped in seamlessly. She oversaw the daily needs of the people who called the castle home with the soft voice of a mother and the ruthless streak of a general. Raising both Peter and Darcy hadn’t been easy, but May had a sense of humor that had gotten them through some very rebellious years.

Today, May was keeping one eye on the flow of food for the lunch buffet table, writing up the weekly grocer’s order, deciding which holy day decorations were too tattered for another year’s use, discussing substitutions for the daily work schedule, and issuing orders to the maids and gardeners. Running to keep pace, Darcy was tasked with the preparations for the next night’s meal; with Lord Fury expected back, May wanted a special welcome home feast and that was Darcy’s job.

“What do you think of these, dear?” May paused to ask, holding up what looked like a perfectly fine red velvet bow the size of her head. She started to tell May exactly that, but paused, her brain kicking in for once before her mouth opened. If May posed the question, there was a reason why. Taking another, closer look, she noted the spots where the nap was gone, leaving a shiny patch from years of fingers tacking them up, but they were few and far between.

“There are only a couple of patches,” Darcy said. “If we turn them upside down, no one could see them. Otherwise, they look almost new.”

A bright smile was her reward; she’d gotten the answer right. Just because Fury was one of the wealthiest Lords didn’t mean they should throw money away on new when there were perfectly acceptable alternatives. That was Tony Stark’s bailiwick; Darcy had met him four times and had come away both impressed and exasperated by the way the man threw gold at every problem. She appreciated fine things – there was a bolt of very fine scarlet silk she had an eye on that would make an amazing court dress the other prissy misses would kill for – but Stark was over the top in his excess.

“I think you’re right. The purple have to go, thought. Too bad; I haven’t seen any material that color in years, not since Sam brought us the last batch from down South.” She laid the bow down in the cedar box that held more along with embroidered tablecloths and banners for the season.

“The Capitol didn’t have anything like it either,” Darcy offered. Another of her jobs, she was now in charge of shopping when she traveled with Fury. Maria hated shopping … really, who hated buying pretty things? … and May’s duties rarely ever let her leave the castle. Being trusted to make the right calls and spend the small budget had been a boost, Darcy admitted to herself.  “I’ll ask Sam next time he drops in.”

“Aunt May,” Peter called, sliding to a halt in front of them. “Denise dropped a whole bag of flour and Maurice is screaming that he can’t work in these conditions. Again.”

“That is it,” May said. Darcy and Peter both took a step back; they knew that voice. No matter how excellent Maurice’s food was, May didn’t put up with bad behavior and he’d been prickly right from the start, refusing to allow anyone else in his kitchen until May explained in no uncertain terms she was in charge. “Darcy, love, be sure that the kids don’t take all the hard boiled eggs until the guard is through eating. Peter, you’ve got flour on your pants. Don’t think I’ll forget.”

She strode off, and Darcy breathed a quiet prayer for the man about to get his head handed to him on one of his own platters. If he got angry, May would fire him, holy days or no holy days, and then they’d have to find a new chef in a hurry.  Maurice was difficult, but Darcy did enjoy his treacle tarts.

“And exactly how did Denise get distracted?” She turned on Peter, raising an eyebrow. The scullery maid was a very pert young blonde who had her eye on Darcy’s younger brother.

“Not my fault. I just went in to grab a couple of meat pies for lunch. I swear!” He protested. “I can’t help it if she gets all clumsy around me.”

“Because she likes you, dummy.” Darcy cuffed him lightly on the back of his head, a very old habit. He’d done it to her a few times.  “You have this thing …”

Peter jerked; Darcy made a quick grab to stop him from reeling backwards. Unfocused and staring straight ahead, his eyes were wide and he went rigid for just a few seconds. Then he was back, eyes darting to Darcy, his hands grabbing her wrists and pulling her towards a passageway.

“We have to go. Now,” was all he said as he tugged her along like a sack of potatoes. He was too strong to resist and she didn’t, trying instead to keep on her feet as he broke out into a run. “Got to get to Jane.”

“Peter,” Darcy said. He ignored her. “Peter!” She raised her voice. His head didn’t turn. “PETER!” She put some power behind the word, channeling her best impression of Aunt May. “Tell me what’s happening.”

The last one broke through to him; he shook his head and kept running. “It’s bad. Don’t know what, just that we need to get to Jane and get you two out of here.”

“We should warn the others,” Darcy was saying as they stumbled into the herb garden.

Clashing steel echoed from just the other side of the stone wall that framed the small area. The stout oaken outer door was unbarred and cracked; on the ground beside it was a familiar rucksack with books spilling out. Heedless of the danger, Darcy darted forward, kneeling and scooping up the contents.

“Damn it,” Peter cursed, yanking Darcy up and out of the line of sight of the courtyard beyond. The bag went with her and she slung it over her shoulder despite its weight. Squashed against the stone, Peter risked peeking around the doorsill; from her place beside him, Darcy could see the edge of a horse trough and a rain barrel. Hiding behind the barrel, Jane was trying to make herself as small as possible in the space between it and the wall.

Just then, Dooley, one of the guards, backed into view, thrusting with his sword, face intent on the fight. Darcy couldn’t see his opponent, just the deadly glint of steel and Dooley slowing being forced another step towards Jane. This was bad. There was no way the attackers had gotten to this private inner courtyard without an alarm sounding. Not unless someone let them inside. A chill of fear ran through her at that thought.

“Stay here,” Peter ordered, drawing his sword. “As soon as you seen an opening, get to the stables and saddle up.”

“I can …” Darcy started to protest but Peter was gone, not out the doorway but up and over the wall, flipping off the top. Scooting closer, she could see more of the fight now. Dooley and two others … Kiernan and Gabby … were hard pressed by seven assailants. For the first time, Darcy got a good look at the others, and she couldn’t stifle the gasp that rose in her throat. Like something from a nightmare, the manlike creatures were a shambling mess of body parts and clothes, slashes of missing skin and sewn together with baling thread in huge stitches. A macabre rag doll, as it were, alive and intent on killing. No wonder Jane alternated between squeezing her eyes shut and staring in horror at the things.

Peter landed on one, wrapping his legs around its neck and twisting as he dropped his hands to the ground and somersaulted off. The move should have broken the thing’s spine but it just turned its attention to Peter, its head at an impossible angle. Dancing in and out, Peter landed blow after blow, but nothing seemed to affect the monster.

Her mind raced to make sense of it all and a passage from a book Philip made her read once rose to mind. “Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay to mold me? Man, did I solicit thee from darkness to promote me?” Not helpful, she thought, but then she didn’t have anything else to work with, so what would it hurt? If she remembered right, the monster in the book had been afraid of fire. Glancing up, she saw a half-burned torch in the holder on the wall just by the door.  Her hand dipped into the pockets of Jane’s bag, searching by touch for the tiny silver flint and tinder box she knew Jane used to light the burner in her lab.  Now, she just had to step through the doorway and grab the piece of treated wood.

Darcy took a quick stock of her own situation; she had only her small dagger strapped to the inside of her thigh, but, for once, her independent nature worked in her favor. Angry about Maria’s verdict yesterday, Darcy had donned her pants underneath the long skirt and petticoat she’d put on this morning. Untying the laces, she slid both down over her hips, shimmying until they were pooled on the ground around her boots. Snatching them up, she stuffed them in Jane’s bag because, who knew, she might need them later when Maria yelled at her for what she was about to do.

A thunk caught her attention; Jane flinched as Dooley stumbled into the trough. Water splashing over the hem of Jane’s dress and toes of her shoes, drawing Darcy’s line of sight just in time to see one of the creatures bending over the rain barrel, misshapen hands extended towards the brunette. 

One deep breath and Darcy took the two steps out into the courtyard, reached up and grabbed the torch. She didn’t bother to hide, just notched the wooden starter against the flint and touched the end of the wood treated with resin and wound with cloth. For a second, she thought the spark wouldn’t take, but a tiny wisp of smoke curled up, and she had time to dump the tinder box back in the bag before she brandished her weapon at the thing looming over Jane.

“How about a little fire, eh?” Darcy asked. She thrust the now burning end right into its face, flames catching on the edge of its shirt and scraggly hair, both of which went up like tinder. With a muted roar that Darcy knew she’d hear in her dreams from now on, it staggered back, flapping its hands to try and put itself out, but only succeeding in spreading the deadly blaze.

“Darce?” Jane asked, looking up at her with surprise.

“Come on” Darcy reached out her free hand to pull her friend up. “Stay with me.”

She turned, Jane behind her, and surveyed the scene, deciding on a course of action. One guard, Gabby, had a gash in her leg and Dooley was bleeding from a head wound. Darcy pressed both her and Jane back into the wall, hoping to avoid notice. The six other creatures, however, turned their attention to the two women, pushing aside the swords that tried to stop them as they surged forward. A flash and Peter landed beside them, eyeing the torch and the flaming creature now a heap on the ground.

“Good idea,” he said and took the torch before he bounded away.

“Hey!” Darcy complained, but by the time she started to argue, Peter had touched two of the creatures and the other guards grabbed anything flammable they could get a hold of to set as many ablaze as they could. It was a gruesome scene, and Jane buried her head against Darcy’s back, winkling her nose at the obnoxious smell. Soon, there was nothing left but seven burning piles.

“Lady Darcy. Lady Jane,” Kiernan, the oldest of the three guards, asked. “Are you both unhurt?”

“We’re well,” Jane answered with only a slight tremble in her voice. “I stepped out to get some water for the black root, and they came out of nowhere. It is good you were nearby and heard my scream.”

“True,” the guardsman agreed. “We should get you to safety in case there are …”

The warning claxon sounded like a banshee wail, raising the hair on the back of Darcy’s neck. Three long blasts, a pause then two more. The pattern repeated over and over again, and her heart stuttered at the message. Castle breached. Lockdown if possible or evacuate the keep. Others said that Fury was obsessed; his insistence on readiness and military might old-fashioned and out-of-date. They laughed behind their bejeweled hands at the constant drilling and practice, even calling him Old Gloom-and-Doom. At court, Fury was tolerated because of his power and money; the King pretended to listen to Fury’s warnings, but he didn’t believe any of them. Now, all the training paid off. Shouts sounded, boots clattered on distant stones and doors slammed. Everyone reacted; May would be barring the doors to block the intruders’ access and protect whoever was inside.

“We need to get to the stables,” Peter declared.

At the same instant, Kiernan said, “We go to the chapel.” The chapel was the logical answer; it was the closest of the safe spaces and had a cellar with a heavily bolted door. But Peter had that look again.

“The stables,” Darcy agreed. When Kiernan looked like he was going to disagree, she smiled. “Tyson Creek. Remember?”

The story had become legend in the last two years; Peter hadn’t saved the people in the local inn only moments before the water from the swollen dam burst and flooded over the banks. It was more like three hours warning. But the whispers had grown into quite a tale. Peter flinched when he heard the name, but it worked.

“Dooley, you and Peter take the back. Gabby and I’ll take the lead. Ladies, the middle, please.”

Their destination was through an archway, past the chapel, down the slope past the drying rooms and around the Northwest tower. At each turn, Kiernan paused and glanced at Peter before continuing on. Darcy had taken back the torch and they gathered up others they passed just in case. The carved doors of the chapel were already closed, the stained glass windows shuttered from the inside. The curve of the tower was in front of them, the stables just out of sight.

 Four guards blocked the cobbled path down the hill, swords at the ready. Darcy knew them all, part of the Manor Guard, the ones tasked with protecting the residents. She’d practically grown up with Craig and Joshua, castle rats; Craig’s father was a guard and Joshua’s mother a lady’s maid.  A roving gang of troublemakers, that’s what Maria called them when they were ten-years-old and decided to spend the night on the top of the central tower to watch for Lady Laura’s ghost. Considering that no one had died, just a broken arm and some screaming that woke most of the castle, Darcy still thought their punishment had been far too harsh.

“Thane Hill sent us. We’re to take Darcy and Jane to the fallback point. You’re needed in the main courtyard.” Craig stepped forward, taking the lead, which was strange considering he was a brand new member.

“I’m handling this,” Peter said. Suddenly he looked older, a foreshadowing of the man he would become. “Stand aside.”

“Can’t do that. Orders.” There was no mistaking the way the four men shifted their weight, hands choking up on their swords. Something was off; neither Craig nor Joshua smiled, their usually cheerful faces set in grim lines.

She felt the change, Kiernan widening his stance, Dooley and Gabby moving in tight. In a blink, Joshua’s eyes turned a violent blue, glowing bright in the afternoon sun.  The moment hung suspended, a brief pause before one side broke. Darcy didn’t think, just acted, going with whatever words flowed into her mind.

“Joshua Tindell. What do you think you’re doing, playing hero? If I remember right, I’m the one who always had to rescue you, so don’t start thinking I’m some damsel in distress.” Darcy pushed past Kiernan and planted herself between the two groups, hands on her hips. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. Remember the cistern? Who screamed then?”

“Darcy!” Peter tugged on her elbow but she ignored her brother, focusing instead on the slight flinch she saw Joshua give.

“Craig Jeffers. I’d think after the last time you tried to kidnap me … what was it again? Oh, yes, you didn’t want me to tell your father about your little black market selling stolen tarts … you learned your lesson. How long was it until you could sit down again?” She stared the young man down, ignoring the odd color of his normally brown eyes. “Shall I remind you just how I got you to let go?”

Almost automatically, Craig hunched, protecting himself from the expected kick. When he looked back up, the blue faded. Confused, he glanced around. “What … what’s going on?” he asked.

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Darcy replied. “Have you been into May’s medical stores again?” Tilting her head, she filled her voice with humor, hiding the fear she felt with a laugh.

“I don’t think so … we were … the warning klaxon rang …” Joshua shook his head as if to clear it.

“You were coming to check on us. All of you were sent by Maria to make sure we were safe. See?” She pushed forward and they gave way, parting before her relentless stream of conversation. “It was terrifying, these scarecrow kind of things, monsters really. I know, sounds like I’m the one who found the peyote, but seriously, they looked like they were sewn together by someone as bad at sewing as me.” Looking back, she waggled her eyebrows at Peter and the others who stood rooted in place, staring at her. When they didn’t respond, she nodded towards the stables once, twice and then a third time, broader, as she continued to talk. “You know how much I hate stitchery. Hours hunched over, pricking my fingers, making tiny little perfect stitches for what? Underwear. Socks. Petticoats.”

Jane was the first to move, following along in Darcy’s wake, and her motion started the others. They walked past the staring guardsmen whose eyes flickered between their normal color and the unearthly blue. Dooley and Gabby covered Jane, swords lowered but still in their hands. Kiernan nodded Peter to go through next.

“You know, I’m the one who figured out that fire works the best against the things. Maria needs to know that. We’re safe and fire burns them. You need to go tell her that. Find her and tell her.” For the last, she channeled her best Maria Hill brook no arguments voice. Craig moved immediately, taking a few steps back towards the chapel.

“Right. The creatures. I remember. Everyone else needs to know,” he said more to himself than the others.  The stable wasn’t that far; Jane was close to the riding ring, and all Darcy needed to do was keep talking.

“Go be a hero; Jane and I are fine.” As soon as she said it, Darcy winced, knowing naming them was the wrong thing. All four of them jerked their heads towards her, blazing blue back and focused entirely upon her person. “Damn.”

“Go.” Kiernan said, stepping in front of Darcy. He hefted his sword. “Run. All of you. Get inside.”

Still Darcy hesitated; she knew all these people, didn’t want anything to happen to them, didn’t want anyone hurt. The first clang of steel against steel pulled her out of her indecision; Peter wrapped a hand around her arm and tugged her towards the stables.

“Come on, Darce!” 

She went. Jane had picked up her skirts and was the first at the main stable door; Gabby, just behind her, held Jane back and went in first to check. Dooley was waiting for Darcy and Peter, one eye on Kiernan and the others, ready to jump into the fray. Then they were inside the main hall and Darcy realized the danger of the flames and hay almost instantly. She carefully placed her torch in a holder, replacing the unlit wood. 

Turning, she saw Dooley struggling with the massive door; she honestly couldn’t remember the last time the double height, double wide wooden door was closed completely. The fighters came into view, Kiernan being pressed back, step-by-step, the four younger men launching unrelenting feints. They weren’t all attacking at once; one or two would try to slip around Kiernan’s reach and make for the stables. He had to open his flank more than once to stop the end run. A long gash ran across his quilted vest, a shorter one along one bicep, but so far the leather armor was holding.

“Jane, man the bar! Let’s get this closed.” Peter shouted as he ran to help Dooley. Gabby jumped behind Dooley, her leg still bleeding sluggishly, and Peter braced his shoulder against the wood for leverage as he bent his legs and put his weight into it. 

Darcy took her place at the front edge and the door rolled forward a few inches. First thing she was going to do when this was over was find out whose job it was to grease the mechanism and give them a good dressing down. They tried again. Each shove bought them a little more distance, but Kiernan was almost at the entrance, and they were out of time.

Darting around Kiernan’s back, Craig’s hand grabbed onto the strap of Jane’s bag, pulling Darcy off balance and out the door. As much to keep upright as push him away, Darcy slammed her hands into his chest, channeled all of her frustration, and shouted right in his face.

“Wake up, Craig!”

The words blew out of her mouth and rippled down through her arms, exploding into Craig’s body and knocking him a step back. Freeing the bag, she swung it hard, book filled sack connecting with Craig’s head. He went down on his knees, swayed, and then looked up at her.

“Darce? What the …” he said before he passed out on the hard earthen floor.

A hand, slippery with blood, caught her elbow. Kiernan dragged her back inside the stable. “Close it!” he ordered.

Another shove, but the door stalled again. The three remaining guards lashed out. A sword flashed, Kiernan staggered back and dropped to the stable floor.

Panic flooded Darcy as red splatters covered the toes of her boots and she screamed. “SHUT THE DOOR!”

With a rush of wind and a distant echo of thunder, the door crashed against the opposite sill, the walls vibrating with the impact, keeping the three blue-eyed guards outside. Dooley lost his footing and went down. Then Jane threw the long wooden bar to lock the door in place. Silence reined for a brief moment; Peter stared at Darcy then the big door began to thrum with blows coming from outside.

“Lord Parker?” A groom peaked around the far corner of the hall from where he’d been hiding.  “Is everything okay?”

“No,” Peter answered, still staring at his sister. “Did you secure the building?” That was part of protocol; bar and lock all doors if possible.

“Yes, milord. Everyone but the big one. We couldn’t do it, so Neil ran to get help. That was when you came in.”

“Saddle a horse for everyone,” Kiernan said, sitting up. A long cut ran along his hairline, a wash of vivid red blood marring his neck and chest. “They’re going to find a way in. We have to get to the designated fallback position.”

“No.”  This time Darcy answered. “Those guys know the safe places. They could be waiting for us.”

If Tarian soldiers were under some sort of coercion then they had to go off script, do something unexpected.

“What are we going to do?” Jane asked just as the banging stopped.

“The unexpected,” Darcy answered. “Everybody up for a trip?”

* * *

 

“… and this proves that that land was belonged to Francis Frasier just a hundred and four years ago …”

Evan Frasier was a thin man with slicked back black hair and a beak-like nose and wrinkled skin. His tendency to drink all the profits he could fish up was evident in the rose hue of his cheeks and broken capillaries in the corner of his eyes.

Bruce was having a hard time keeping his eyes opened as the man’s mouth ran on and on, one nonsensical argument after another. Someone had stoked the fire and the hall, filled with all the petitioners and those who came to watch, was overly warm. Plus, he hadn’t been able to sleep well, constantly disturbed by dreams that were little more than collections of images, yet left him lying awake, wracked with emotions. Sweating, jumping, heart pounding, he’d drift back off, only to dream again.

“That paper don’t mean a damn thing!” Stuart Ferguson jumped up from his place on the opposite bench. A scrawny man himself, Stuart had a round pot belly that stuck out on his small frame. “Your grandpappy stole the best land from us and Lord Frasier himself, God rest his soul, decided it was ours before he died. You just want to pull one over on the young pup here, thinking he won’t know that you’re nothing but a no good liar and cheat.” 

“Gentlemen.” Clint’s voice cut over the rumbles and voices that followed the pronouncement. Used to being heard on the battlefield, Clint grabbed all of their attention and the people in the room settled back down. “As much as I appreciate the concern of Mr. Ferguson here, I am more than capable of knowing when someone is selling a line of bull.” The Frasier family members murmured encouragement at that, happy to see Clint calling Stuart on his slight while the Fergusons grumbled. “And, I’m sorry Mr. Frasier, but a receipt for harvest workers doesn’t mean that your family owned the property, merely that they paid for the labor.” Complaints from the Frasiers mixed with some applause and ‘here, here’s’ from the Fergusons. Clint waited for them to quiet again, staring at both men until they sat down in on their benches. “Now, I understand that you have an unmarried daughter, Mr. Frasier, Helen Francis, I believe her name is. And you, Mr. Ferguson, have a son, Glenn, about the same age. So here’s my solution: the acres in question will be gifted to Glenn and Helen upon the occasion of their marriage with the stipulation that the land pass on to their first male heir, who will take the name of your father, Evan, and remain in the family line. Otherwise, I will take that land, sell it, and split the proceeds between your families.”

“What?” Frasier jumped up. “My Helen’s not going to marry that Ferguson thief!”

“No!” Ferguson shouted. “No way my boy’s getting saddled with that Frasier girl!”

Uproar followed, and Bruce was impressed by the way Clint simply waited then banged the end of his knife hilt on the table. “That is enough!” Silence fell. “Bring Glenn and Helen to see me tomorrow at this time and I’ll put the question to them. If they agree, then it’s done. And, gentlemen, may I suggest that you respect the fact that Mamie Dugan married Richard Ferguson three generations ago and do what’s best for your family and your children?” When the men started to speak again, Clint cut them off and rose. “I will not hear of this again. Tomorrow, make sure the kids are here.” He addressed the last to the men’s wives who sat beside each other in the back of the room. “Court’s adjourned for the day. Take it outside, boys.”

Tellingly, Evan Frasier stormed out, his petite wife Audrey following him with her head down. Stuart Ferguson’s wife, Dolly, on the other hand, caught his ear and dragged him through the door, a storm brewing in her blue eyes. Bruce wanted to laugh, and he bit his bottom lip to keep the smile from spreading across his face. It had only taken Clint twenty minutes earlier to get to the heart of the story; Annamarie sent him to Farmer Hammond whose son, Caine, spilled the whole tale of Glenn and Helen. Grandma Dugan filled Clint in on the Ferguson/Frasier long standing feud. From there, the answer was easy; the wedding would unite the families and would enhance Clint’s reputation.

“That went well,” Clint said. “I think you should talk about letting go of old hate for the marriage sermon.”

“I’ll use that story about the two kids who end up dead,” Bruce agreed. “Nice and tragic to remind them of what happens when parents are idiots.”

Fear. Sharp and quick. Stabbing into his chest like a swift dagger plunge.

_Books in a bag on the ground, contents spilled out among the plants._

Adrenaline. A head rush. Teeth clenched, muscles tight, he fought the urge to lash out.

_Shapeless monster. Rough stitches. Reaching hands._

Relief. Deep breath. The band loosened across his throat.

“Bruce?” Clint was leaning over him. Bruce blinked and looked up from where he lay on the floor. “The room’s clear. No one here but us.”

“I’m … I think I’m ...” He tried to sit up, but his arms didn’t want to cooperate. “Something’s happening. I don’t …”

Confusion. Scrambling his brain. Making it impossible to reason his way out of the fog.

_Glowing blue eyes. Swords drawn. Hope. Fear. Running. Flight. Blood flowing._

_Power_. _Exploding in his body, racing down his legs and out his arms, pouring from his fingers and toes_.

The thing inside of him burst forth in one smooth transition, Bruce becoming the Berserker in between breaths. Standing, he searched for an exit, a need to fight against the emotions pounding him.

“Wake up,” he growled. “Need to wake up. Danger. Evil is coming. Have to protect her.”

With that, he was gone, leaving Clint staring at his retreating back as the Berserker slammed the shut the door behind him.

 


	4. Shall We Dance?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy, Peter, and Jane arrive at Barton Manor and the inevitable meeting takes place. Aside from a minor complication, all seems to go well ... until Loki and another guy show up in Darcy's dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to be so late posting this. Was out of town and my laptop decided to not connect to the internet at the hotel.
> 
> Some Bruce/Berserker/Hulk headcanon in the end note if you're interested. I'm taking a different direction than either the comics or the movies in this story.

Missouri circled around the shield one more time, carefully not touching it, before returning to the map on the desk. She’d been making the same circuit over and over again for the last half hour, listening to the vibrations, she’d said. They’d all learned their lesson and were being much more careful; first time her fingers had brushed the polished metal, Missouri had released a jolt of electricity and been knocked unconscious for the larger part of a day. Too powerful for her low-level ability, the shield kept overwhelming her senses, leaving her unable to trace the other parts of Lord Rogers’ armor.

Watching from his chair by the fireplace, Philip tried to focus on other things rather than the impatience he felt growing at the lack of progress. On Philip’s lap was a collection of letters they’d found in the underground library, one side of a correspondence from Thane Jacques Dernier to his wife, Amelie. It was like listening to a one person in a conversation; Philip was trying to fill in the blanks as he worked through them, looking for any clue to where the man might have taken his piece of armor. They knew he’d headed north, but so far there was no idea of exactly where and which item he had in tow. And there was still a stack of books untouched to get through; there just weren’t enough hours in the day.

“It’s weird,” Missouri mumbled. She talked to herself, and Philip tried to listen but not break her concentration by responding. She stared down at the map again and tapped an empty spot somewhere on the Stark/Barton line, higher up in the mountains. Nothing was marked there, just the change in color to note the elevation. “It keeps nudging me here, but that makes no sense. It’s so close to Hidden Lake. I think it’s imprinted too heavily from Rogers’ death.” 

He started to open his mouth to suggest an answer, but he didn’t. The dark skinned woman paid no attention to him, just stared at the map and went on another turn around the shield. Philip watched her out of the corner of his eye; her black hair was pulled back in a bright pink ribbon that matched the trim on her simple calico gown. For a librarian, she had a very strong voice and she talked an awful lot. Philip liked her; nothing cowed her. She’d told Mayor Garrett exactly what she thought of him within three hours of meeting him. Clint was already terrified of the growing friendship between Missouri and Annamarie; the last thing he needed was another tough woman telling him what to do, he said. Truth was, Clint liked the large woman and her funny stories; he was just unnerved by the things she seemed to know.

“You got some old paper scraps? Something I can cut up?” she asked. Philip blinked and realized she was talking to him.

“Top left desk drawer, scissors in the middle right.”

“Can you make me a little wind?” She took out a torn piece of parchment that wasn’t yet scraped clean and clipped it into five sections about the same size. When Philip didn’t answer, she stopped moving and stared at him. “Well? You glow. Never seen an aura that bright. Give me a hand here and we’ll see how these things land.”

So Missouri read auras; that wasn’t that unusual a talent. King Donaldson employed a reader, and Fury knew at least two hedge wizards who could do the same. Still it was the first time someone had mentioned his own aura. Philip stood up. “I’ll see what I can manage. Control isn’t my strong suit.”

 “Darlin’, everyone living in the manor knows that.” She chuckled in response. A blush rushed up his cheeks, and she patted his shoulder. “I’m going to throw these up over the shield; a gentle little breeze and we’ll see where they land.”

They flew up and Philip bled a little power out; the scraps should have flown randomly but they didn’t, circling first about the metal round then floating onto the map. One landed on the same spot Missouri had been sensing earlier.  One ended north in Asgard, directly on the capitol.  Another further west, far over on the coast in the city of Asanego. South on the island of Kaywiss. Over the sea, east, in Dolais near Hast. And the last one close by in Burosey, where Lord Stark’s castle was located.

“Well, now, I didn’t think that would work.” She smiled, white teeth flashing. “Damn, I’m good.”

“Asgard we suspected,” Philip agreed. “The rest fits with the stories of the directions his men went. All but the Burosey. That’s a surprise.”

Nathan came to halt, boots sliding on the stone floor, out of breath. “Lord Philip,” he said. “There’s someone here for you; Annamarie put him in the Lady Frasier’s garden.”

“Thank you, Nathan,” Philip said, dismissing the page who was already running back towards the hall.  He shook his head at the losing battle to teach the boys decorum; too many years with Clint’s troop, living mercenary life to ever be court trained. And that no longer bothered Philip. Barton Holding wasn’t the Capitol or even Fury’s Tarian Castle. Court manners didn’t matter quite as much here.

“Off you go,” Missouri said. “Tell Bruce I said hello. I’ll mark these locations for you.”

She said things like that; Philip was becoming immune to the surprise of her pronouncements. With a nod, he made the journey through the manor to the door that led out into the small walled garden. Lately, it had become Bruce’s domain. The clerk was determined to salvage as many of the herbs and specialized plants Clint’s grandmother had begun as he could. As Philip came into the space, he saw how much progress Bruce had made in the trimming, some of the branches cut back all the way to the ground, others pruned a little, and some dug up to be replanted into the pots lined along the cleared walkway.

The last couple days had been difficult for Bruce; yesterday he’d lost control and disappeared until this morning, the second time he’d changed in twenty four hours. Bruce had told Philip about his dreams, flashes of emotions and danger that left him angry and unsettled, very much like the ones Philip had been having. No coincidence, Philip believed; after he and Clint went through the bonding ritual, Bruce had been one of the others affected, tied into the magic that was being created. And Philip knew exactly how it felt to wrestle with control of energy inside of him. Bruce was definitely doing that right now.

Standing in the small area with two stone benches, the clerk was talking to a very familiar young man. Brown hair dirty and askew, Peter Parker was running his hand nervously along the outside of his thighs, a habit he had when he knew something was wrong.

“Peter,” Philip came to a halt and consciously tried to keep the sudden worry he felt from showing in his voice. “We weren’t expecting you for another month. What’s happened?”

“Well, ah …” Peter looked at Bruce and back at Philip. “It’s a story that’s for sure.”

So he didn’t want to talk in front of the Clerk; that wasn’t a good sign. “Peter, this is Bruce Banner, our clerk. Whatever trouble you’ve brought to our doorstep, you can tell us both since we’ll be dealing with it.”

Straightening his back, Peter’s look changed. His face shuttered closed. “Of course you jump to the conclusion that I’ve done something wrong that you have to fix.”

“Peter,” Philip warned, but this was a long standing complaint that Peter warmed to easily.

“Maybe this once I did something right? Did that even occur to you?” Peter threw his hands up and began to pace back and forth. “No, you just assume I screwed up.”

Philip tried not to let Peter get his temper up, but family always knew how to make Philip lose his calm demeanor. “Did Nicholas send you?”

“For your information, Tarian Castle was attacked yesterday.” Peter tossed the fact out and stared; he was angry, but that only covered the fear underneath. Philip could see it in Peter’s eyes, the nervous inability to stay still, and the way he instantly became defensive. He too often forgot that Peter was sixteen, sometimes a man and sometimes still a boy.

“Okay.” Philip put his hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Sit down. Tell the story from the beginning.”

Settling on one of the benches, Peter told them about the strange creatures, the blue-eyed guards who tried to stop them, and their flight from the castle to Barton Manor. They’d ridden all night under the waxing moon, stopping only long enough to patch their wounds and buy some food at a small village. Twice, Philip looked at Bruce, a silent conversation happening over Peter’s head.

“Golems,” Bruce said once Peter had wound down. “Animated creatures; I just read about them in the grimoire. They can be made from all sorts of materials – clay, body parts, even straw – and they follow whatever orders they are given. Not very smart, but very focused. They’ll keep going towards their target mindlessly. Virtually indestructible, except for fire, as they discovered. Not as much magic needed to make them. More of a one time expenditure, unlike a geas on living beings. That takes much more control and power.”

“Wait. What? Magic?” Peter turned his head and really looked at Bruce then back to Peter. “Are you saying that magic made Craig and Josh come at us?”

“Yes.” Philip took a second to answer then went right back to the conversation with Bruce. “Two different sorcerers? Loki was at court just last week and he’s capable of turning the guard, but a frontal assault isn’t his style. He’s more likely to have taken the opportunity to gain something he wanted than plan the whole thing.”

“Loki? Prince Loki? He’s a sorcerer?” Peter’s eyes grew wide. “There are sorcerers?” 

“Peter, I need you to think,” Philip said, ignoring his brother’s questions. “Was there anything specific the creatures were after? What was their focus?”

“I’m not sure.” Peter always doubted himself, didn’t trust his instincts. “I just knew we had to get to Jane and those things, the golems, were there.”

“And the guard? Did they say anything?” Philip pushed for details.

“That they were there to take Jane and Darcy to safety,” Peter shrugged. “Part of the emergency plan. House guards are responsible for the family’s evacuation.”

“Jane and Darcy. Not you?” Philip lasered in on the detail.

“Of course. I don’t need ...” He stopped. “Wait. Am I still on the protection list? Phil! I thought that changed on my birthday.”

“You know how Nicholas feels about having eyes on the family. Maria and I both had assigned guards.” Why that would surprise Peter, he didn’t know. Nicholas was almost fanatical about security. “So they were after the girls?”

“Do they have talents?” Bruce asked the logical question. The sorcerer behind all of this had aimed for Philip and Clint first because of their magic. Maybe that was the same reason to focus on the two women. “Could one of them be a potential mage?”

“Jane’s a scholar, a genius in her area; Lord Stark calls her one of the brightest minds of our generation.” Jane Foster studied the stars and natural forces like gravity and other energies. How it fit, Philip didn’t know yet. “Darcy? I’ve always assumed she was going to grow into an excellent Lady of the manor. She has an easy relationship with people and enough energy to organize an army if she ever put her mind to it.”

“Excuse me, can we go back to the whole magic thing?” Peter interjected. “If I’m following this, you think a sorcerer made those creatures, controlled Craig and the others, sent them all after Jane? Because they think she’s a … mage?”

“Yes.” Philip sighed. It almost made sense except for … “When you left Tarian, what happened to the ensnared guards?”

“One of them stayed at the main door and the others circled around to try the others.  We went out the Farrier’s door,” Peter said.  “Rode right by them and they couldn’t do a thing.”

“So they knew you left by horse.” Philip’s blood ran cold as he realized what it meant. “And they saw you go.”

“Yes,” Peter said with the same inflection Philip had used earlier. He smirked a little. “And we came here because we knew you’d help us.”

“I’ll tell Carol to institute the protocol we discussed and to send patrols out.” Bruce turned towards the inner door.

“She might be up at the main hall; she was talking to Annamarie about the new guard’s mess,” Philip said. Bruce nodded in agreement as he left.

“I don’t understand,” Peter protested. “We’re here, we’re safe, what did I do?”

“How hard do you think it will be for someone to follow you?” Philip felt a simmer of frustration that happened often when dealing with Peter. His brother had a good heart and meant well, but he didn’t think beyond the moment; seeing the bigger implications of actions was one of the lessons Philip sometime despaired Peter would ever learn. “When you stopped in the village, did anyone recognize you?”

Peter started to object, but then he realized what Philip was saying. “Dooley knew one of the farmers who gave us food and feed for the horses. And we stopped at the well to fill the water skins.”

“In the middle of town.” Where townspeople saw them and would easily tell any of Fury’s guard who came asking which direction the small party was heading.

“They won’t …” Peter started to argue.

“Why not? They could be riding into town right now, looking for a way past the wall. Trust me, I’ve got experience with this kind of magic; they’ll have no compunction about killing whoever gets in their way. They serve the sorcerer who cast the spell.”

“That’s why we came to you. We’re family.”

He couldn’t make Peter see the danger he’d brought with him. “And so are these people. Clint is my husband now and I made a commitment to him; he comes first.”

“What? Are you going to kick us out? Make us go back?” Peter’s face flushed, anger making his eyes flash. “Are you not my brother anymore?”

 “Of course I am.” The fight went out of Philip; he couldn’t think of how to make Peter understand. “Do you know what happened here? How many people died when they were attacked a few years ago? Family members, loved ones, who sacrificed to save others. And in the last few months, it’s started again; we’ve lost children and families along with fighters. I’m worried about this new front in what’s shaping up to be a war and what it means to all of us.”

That took the wind out of Peter’s sails. He looked abashed and hung his head. “I just didn’t think. We didn’t want to go to any of the designated places and Darcy suggested here and I didn’t think about it.”

“Look. Clint has to make this decision; he’s the Lord here.” Philip put a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Clint’s a good man. Let’s get you some dinner and we can talk about it afterwards.”

“You know I’m hungry.” To punctuate his agreement, Peter’s stomach rumbled. Impetuous, he threw his arms around Philip and gave him a big hug. “I wouldn’t say no to a comfortable bed either. And a bathtub. I’ll even let you make me scrub behind my ears.”

A throat cleared and Philip looked over Peter’s shoulder. Clint was watching them, a strange look on his face. A frisson of awareness trickled down Philip’s spine, the energy shifting between them. Those blue-grey eyes were taking in all of Peter, the way his hands were resting on Philip’s shoulders. Feeling how Philip tensed, Peter turned his head and his eyes widened.

“Clint.” Philip extricated himself from Peter’s hold.  “I didn’t … I thought you were still on the wall.” His tongue tripped over itself; Clint just tilted his head and waited for an explanation. “This is my brother, Peter. I’m afraid he’s the harbinger of a new problem.”

A few seconds hung suspended then Clint offered his hand and Peter shook it. “Nice to meet you,” Clint said. And that was all.

“Peter, can you find your way back to the Main Hall? I’m sure you want to clean up before we eat.” Never let it be said that Peter was insensitive to tension; as soon as Philip gave him the option, the young man was ready to bolt.

“That sounds excellent.” He was already edging towards the manor. “Nice to meet you too.”

Clint stayed still until the wooden door swung closed behind Peter then he closed the distance between them, stopping close enough that Philip could feel the puffs of his breath ghosting across his cheek. Every nerve in Philip’s body fired, magic jumping between them and crackling down to the ground.

“Did you mean what you said?” Clint asked, voice a little hoarse and low.

“That my brother dragged trouble with him?” Philip wasn’t sure the answer his husband was looking for. He couldn’t tell. 

“That I come first. Before your family.” Something akin to hope filled Clint’s eyes and a wash of warmth drove the doubt out of Philip’s chest.

“Did you not know that?” He had to touch and the moment his fingers slid along the smooth line of Clint’s jaw, he could feel the magic flow strong and clear, the echo of Clint’ song on the edges. “You are my center, Clint. I will always love them and worry about them, but I am yours. Always.”

“Oh, God, Phil.”  Clint surged up and kissed him, fisting his hands into Philip’s collar, fast and hard. Need rolled through Philip like a long drink of fine wine, warming him all the way to his toes. “If we didn’t have to deal with this, I’d drag you to bed and keep you there for days.”

“Don’t doubt that I love you.” Philip curled his hand around Clint’s head and made sure to look right into his eyes. “Never.”

“I’m beginning to believe it.” They kissed again, long and slow, lips sliding across lips until Clint broke away and gave Philip a crooked smile. “Now let’s go see what’s going on, shall we?”

* * *

 

Carol, it turned out, was already in the main hall, questioning the three Tarian guards as a petite brunette worked on sewing up their wounds. One of the guards was Dooley, a familiar face at the manor; he’d visited before with Maria Hill. A long gash ran down the left side of his face and into his hair line. Neat little black stitches held the angry red skin together and the whole area was covered in a clean sticky poultice. As Bruce watched, the young woman wrung out a rag into a pail of water then set about adding a layer of the medical ointment onto the leg of a female guard.

“Bruce,” Carol called. “We could use your expertise. Lady Jane doesn’t know if this will stop infections. Can you take a look?”

“Of course.” He readily agreed; picking up the pot she was using, Bruce sniffed it then dipped a finger into the gel like mixture. “Philip sends word that we should be on the lookout for possessed guards following the trail. And to put the countermeasures into effect for our own men.”

“Geas? Damn it,” Carol swore. “I thought so. What about the other creatures?”

“Golems,” Bruce answered. “Fire is particularly effective, but we need to be careful. Since it sounds like they’re made from dead body parts, we should use the same medications we used for the revenants at the McCarter’s. I still have some in the workshop.”

“I’m on it. I’ll have one of the boys run it back up to you. Andrew knows how to make more?” Carol was up and moving, never one to stay still in the best of times, full of energy in the worst.

“Yes. Have him make a big batch.” As she left, Bruce turned his attention back to the three guards. Dooley looked up at him with worry in his eyes.

“Dead bodies? That’s how I got this.” He tapped near the gash. “Gabby too. We have to worry about corpse sickness?”

For all the knowledge of the most learned scholars, there was still so much they didn’t understand about the human body and the way disease was transmitted. Bruce had spent many hours studying how certain illnesses transformed healthy limbs and organs into macabre versions of themselves. Simply by being exposed to certain air or items, people grew large lumps and nodules that were only found in autopsies after their death. All they knew was that people who dealt with the dead sometimes grew ill and died; they had no idea what caused it or how to treat it once it got hold of living tissue.

“Don’t worry. If we dose you three times a day with a special medicine, you’ll be fine,” Bruce assured the redhead.

“And you just happen to have the right poultice on hand for attacks from … creatures like that?” The woman asked, her brown eyes earnest and the slightest bit disbelieving.

“One of the holders was attacked recently, my lady,” he nodded in respect. “I’m Bruce Banner, Clerk of the Desert Order.”

“Lady Jane Foster.” She tried to push away the dirty hank of hair that hung over her face, but it fell right back down. “I’d appreciate if you’d look over my work; I’m not a doctor, I’m a scientist. I can wash and sew and spread medicine, but that’s the extent of my medical training.”

He glanced at the tiny row of stitches, each perfectly measured and equal; she’d done an excellent job on all three of the guards. “I can tell you are a scholar,” Bruce said with a little chuckle. “Only a student could make perfect stitches like that. You did well; as soon as the page returns, we can take care of the rest. Perhaps you’d like to refresh yourself? I’m sure Annamarie has a place you can …”

With a howl, the Berserker launched himself against Bruce’s defenses, raging to be let out. Like a caged animal, he pounded against the walls of Bruce’s mind, tearing his way out of Bruce’s body. Hands shaking, Bruce grabbed onto the nearest table and tried to stop the onslaught. He could hear a woman’s voice asking if he was well, knew when hands attempted to ease him down on a bench, felt the push back of the Berserker who wanted to fight, to smash past everyone in the room. Green twirled along his arms, and a strange half-man, half-other state where he hung suspended over took him.

Emotions bombarded him as his mental walls fell. Concern, sweet yet confused. Fear, muscles tensing. Calculation, what to do, how to respond. Tired yet determined to protect. Worry – so marked with Annamarie’s personality that Bruce could almost hear her voice in his head. And then, right in the middle of all the chaos, the rest died away leaving only curiosity and humor wreathed in the scent of vanilla. The lightest brush of fingers on the back of his hand, and the Berserker stilled, Bruce drew in a deep breath, and calm washed up his arm and into his head. Blinking at the sudden quiet, he looked up and saw the most amazing green irises framed with dark curls that spilled around a heart shaped face.

She wasn’t perfect; that was the first thing he noticed. Her lips were slightly too big, her nose just a touch off center, dark circles marring the sun-kissed skin under her eyes. A brown smudge of dirt highlighted her cheekbone on the right side and her hair was dull with road dust. But when she tilted her head, raised one dark eyebrow and gave him a lopsided smile, Bruce thought she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. The Berserker inside of him agreed; he stopped fighting and, for the first time, they both looked out of their shared set of eyes.

“Gods. You’re him,” she said; each word fell onto Bruce’s skin and he could swear he felt them like drops of cooling rain. “You know what this means? I’m not crazy! I thought there, for a fortnight, that I might be losing my marbles, but here you are. Sitting right in front of me. Not a dream, but a real person who is probably looking at me right now and thinking, what is she talking about? Good job, Darce, terrify the man who’s been invading your dreams for weeks first chance you get to actually meet him.”

To be honest, Bruce wasn’t following the meaning of the words, too taken up by the effect they were having on him. The constant anger that he’d lived with for years, the uncontrolled rage and emotions that bombarded him subsided; his other half wasn’t gone, but he was calmed by her touch and her presence, settling back and willing to wait for her to finish. Bruce let him, not trying to push him back and lock him away when he was being so docile. And when the Berserker pulsed his need to touch her in return, Bruce complied, turning his hand on the table until his palm was up, sliding along, a gentle hold where fingertips and palm rested on her inner wrist but didn’t clasp down. Then both sides of Bruce were content to watch the way her mouth moved, those lips that he’d imagined doing sinful things to his body, her expressive face that showed her every thought that he’d pictured painted with desire and the aftereffects of her own climax, and those eyes that he’d dreamed sparkled with desire for him.

“Um, yeah right, so, I’m Darcy. And this is my friend Jane and Dooley and Gabby and Kiernan and Peter is somewhere, probably with Philip … are you okay? Can you talk? Oh, gosh, wait, are you mute or something? That would be so embarrassing if I was babbling on and you couldn’t respond. I do that. Babble. When no one else talks, I’ll just step in a fill in the void.” She bit her bottom lip and Bruce’s cock, already more than interested, decided that it wanted Bruce to be the one doing the biting and nudged him.

“Darcy.” Bruce broke into her monologue. “I was feeling ill, but you … I’m better now. Thank you.”

“Oh, good. You can talk. You had me scared there for a moment that I’d made an idiot out of myself. Again. I have a bad habit of doing that. Like right now. I need to stop, just shut up Darcy, no one here cares that you are a habitual babbler.” She shook her head but she didn’t withdraw her hand; it was like she’d forgotten that Bruce was holding it.

“That’s not true. I care.” Bruce felt a smile spread across his face. “I like it. The babble. I don’t talk much myself. I’m Bruce, by the way. Bruce Banner.”

The pain surprised him, a searing burst of heat that zigzagged along his fingers and up his forearm. Like a shot of the purest whiskey, desire curled into his stomach, leaving a trail of heat behind as it went. Darcy’s eyes widened and she jumped back, pulling her hand away and cradling it with her other.

“Ouch. What the heck was that?” she asked.

Panic. A crushing weight on his chest. Unworthy. Self-loathing. The knowledge that he was a monster raced back and he pushed up and stood as the miasma of emotions slammed into him. Then the other side of himself took a deep breath and shoved the feelings down, exerting his strong will, keeping Bruce’s feet firmly on the flagstone floor and not letting him run away. It took a few more seconds but Bruce was able to focus on the others around him again.

“Let me see,” Jane was saying, holding Darcy’s arm and examining the red finger marks that were already fading. “It’s almost gone. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“What did you do to yourself, Darce?” Peter came into the room. His stature still surprised Bruce; short and lithe, he looked younger than his sixteen years and he swung from teenaged responses to those of a young Lord. Getting out of a castle under attack and making it all the way to Barton Manor showed an admirable amount of resourcefulness.  He just hoped Philip hadn’t been too hard on Peter about the danger; they were already at a high risk of another foray from the sorcerer’s minions so they had precautions in place.

“Nothing.” Darcy brushed off Peter’s concern, but Bruce noticed that she kept rubbing her wrist. “Bruce was just talking to Jane about treating the wounded. Did Philip yell at you?”

She turned, walked a few steps … and Bruce lost the thread of the conversation as he saw the brown leather pants she was wearing. They hugged along the curve of her hips and ass, the length of leg down to her brown riding boots. Words flowed around him, her voice intermixed with deeper more masculine others, but he didn’t listen. All he could see were his hands, sliding along her inner thighs, pushing those gorgeous legs open and settling right between them. He could almost hear the moan she’d make when he …

Yes, the Berserker agreed. You woo her. I’ll take it from there.

“Bruce.” A hand landed on his shoulder and he jumped, coming back to the conversation. “You’re green around the edges,” Natasha said.

“How long have you been back?” He asked, startled by her sudden appearance. Last he’d heard, she was out looking for word of Loki’s latest movements.

“Long enough to see you barely holding on.” Her far-too-shrewd eyes gave him a once over. “This the girl you’ve been dreaming about?”

“That’s really scary.” He’d only talked to Philip about the disconcerting dreams, carefully editing the more sexual parts thank the gods now that he knew who she was, but it was so like Natasha to know already. “Doesn’t matter. She’s Philip’s sister and Fury’s heir.”

And that was the crux of the matter. Yes, a Lord could name anyone an heir, but the nobility was still very insular. As soon as Darcy became a Lady, Bruce was no longer supposed to even look at her, much less harbor the very … earthy … desires he was having. Bruce’s father had been a scholar, brilliant in his own way, even if he’d been a bastard of a man long before his mind sickness. A sweet woman, his mother had been a merchant’s daughter, a far cry from a future lady of the manor that Darcy would become. None of that took into account the accident and Bruce’s current condition; there was no tolerance for magical abominations like himself. No, Darcy Lewis was beyond the reach of a lowly clerk.

“The mark on your arm suggests differently,” Natasha said. If he turned his head, he could see the very faint shadows of fingers around her own wrist that James Buchanan Barnes had left on her skin.  “Magic works by its own rules if I remember correctly.”

Bruce huffed a little laugh as she repeated his own words back at him. “Not going to happen,” he said with finality.  “Don’t worry. I’m used to rejection.”

“You sell yourself short, Bruce Banner. I’m not one to believe in fate or destiny, but I do know that we all have value despite what the rest of the world may say. I, for one, am damn grateful for the people you’ve protected, those who, like you, I consider friends.”  She smiled then, one of her rare, real ones, and walked over to where Philip and Clint had joined the others.

Deep down, Bruce didn’t believe her. He was a monster in a man’s clothing; he knew that for a fact. All the kind words and offers of friendship couldn’t change what he’d become, what he’d made himself. No woman would ever want more than a roll in the bed sheets to say she’d tamed the beast. The sooner he accepted that, the better off his life would be.

* * *

 

Darcy couldn’t keep her eyes off of Bruce Banner. Despite her best machinations, the clerk was seated on the far end of the head table from where she’d ended up between Jane and Jessica Drew, one of Clint’s thanes. Not that she wasn’t enjoying the woman’s company – Jessica had a wicked sense of humor and a no-nonsense attitude that reminded Darcy of a cross between herself and Peter – but she’d hoped to have more conversation with the man with gorgeous curly brown hair and deep brown eyes. She’d run over him before. Her tendency to prattle on when surprised … or when worried … or when anxious … left little space for others to say anything, and he’d simply sat still and listened for the most part. She couldn’t remember exactly what she’d said, but Jane had assured her that she’d told him he was the man of her dreams and that was enough to make Darcy blush even now.

“Is the meal too spicy for you?” Jessica asked; in her funk, Darcy had eaten very little, pushing the shredded chicken and vegetables around on her plate, making colorful designs.

“Oh, no, I like heat,” she responded, trying to appear normal to at least one person she’d met today. To prove it, she forked up the meat and the reddish sauce. It was delicious and very different from what they at back at the castle, exotic in a way that renewed her desire to travel and see the rest of the Midlands and beyond. “Just woolgathering, I suppose. I’m afraid I’m going to drop into sleep between bites. Sleeping in the saddle isn’t something that works for me; I keep feeling like I’m about to slide off and wake myself up.”

“After a while, you just get so sleep deprived you ignore that.” Jessica laughed and passed Darcy some more dense brown bread to soak up the juices. “I’m surprised you’re still awake, honestly. If I had ridden all night, I’d be tempted to just fall into bed.”

“Hunger won that battle, but I’m headed there as soon as my stomach is satisfied.” Her appetite nudged her again and she set to work finishing off the savory potatoes as well as the chicken. “Maybe I can blame exhaustion for my rudeness earlier. I’m afraid I might have offended Clerk Banner.”

Jessica lifted one eyebrow and the motion tugged up the edge of her mouth. “If you want to know more about Bruce, you could just ask. Considering you think he’s dreamy.”

“Oh, gods, everyone knows, don’t they? Does Philip know? No, wait. Peter doesn’t or he’d be mercilessly teasing me already. I am such an idiot.” What a wonderful introduction of herself she’d made to Philip’s new family.  Everyone had been so nice to them all, despite the fact they’d come riding in, trailing problems in their wake. Clint Barton had very calmly ushered the wounded guard off to rest in the guard house then sat down and listened to every word of their story. In her mind, she’d pictured a bearded, scarred mercenary; she knew he was younger than Philip, but the young, fresh faced and very, very handsome man was completely unexpected. Very handsome. Philip deserved a great husband, of course, and Darcy was more than a little proud of the way the Philip seemed so at ease next to Clint, looser and freer with affectionate touches and smiles. But if Clint Barton ever came to court, the feeding frenzy would begin and he’d have to fight off potential lovers with a stick. Fresh blood and good looking were a deadly combination to the jaded folk who followed the King around.

Even Bruce … she could call him Bruce, she theorized, because she’d already moaned that name in her sleep many times … had been civil if distant as the others had asked questions. She felt his eyes on her throughout the conversation, but never caught him looking directly. And then dinner had been ready before she’d gotten to talk about her dreams with Philip or anyone else.

“I can’t promise no one else is in the know, but no teasing from me. Bruce is handsome enough to make any woman tongue tied. He’s just … shy.” Jessica hesitated and Darcy filed that away in her head. Shy or something else? Oh, wonderful. Now he not only had gorgeous eyes and hair and hands and lips, but he also had some mystery about him. Just what she needed to push her further into her growing obsession with the clerk.

“Well, that’s not a problem for me.” Darcy saw the dessert platter with slices of delicious looking pie and snagged one for her and Jessica.  Jane, busy talking to Sam Wilson on her other side, waved the sweet away too far gone in their discussion of something mechanical. That, Darcy would never understand. Eat dessert first was her motto. Life was too uncertain to not take every chance she got to be happy.  The flaky crust came apart easily beneath the tines of her fork, juicy apples covered with spices piled between. Popping the delectable treasure into her mouth, she closed her eyes at the burst of flavor, the sweetness balanced by tart fruit, the cinnamon of the crust and the tiny hint of cardamom on her tongue. Drawing the fork out, she licked the remaining bits, not wanting to waste a single taste.

Heat flashed along her spine, a twisting ache between her legs and tightening of her nipples. Eyes opened and she turned her head to find those chocolate brown eyes watching her, intent burning across the distance. A raw need that took her breath away, so stark, tinged with just a bit of hopelessness. She wanted to cross the space between them and throw herself into his arms, bury her face in his hair, and curl her body against his. To take away the loss that hovered around the edges of his face and replace it with the desire she’d seen late at night in the privacy of her own imagination. The ability to speak left her staring, silently, wanting and aching in every part of her body.

A cough beside her broken the connection; Jessica dipped her head and gave Darcy a minute to find a way to make her mouth work again before she spoke. “I take it you like the pie,” she said.

Her fork was still hanging between her fingers, empty, but that’s not what the other woman was asking. “I do,” Darcy agreed. “I do indeed.”

Jessica gave her a sympathetic look before Jane asked Darcy if she was finished eating, dragging her attention the other direction. When Darcy turned back, Bruce was gone. Deeply unsettled and unsatisfied, Darcy finished her pie, made her excuses and left with Jane for the room they were sharing on the upper floor.  She thought it might take a while to fall asleep with the way her body was pulsing and her brain flooded with thoughts, but she was gone before Jane could finish unlacing her corset, dropping into a deep sleep right away.

_The ballroom spun around her as she waltzed, tilting her head and keeping her back straight. A rainbow of courtly costumes was arrayed around her as the hand on her waist guided her through the steps._

_“You are so much more than you seem.” For the first time, she had a clear view of his pale face, the blue of his eyes bright and framed by his black, slicked back hair. “I will not miss my second chance.”_

_“Listen, whoever you are. I am getting tired of these nightly visits and cryptic statements. Either tell me what you want or let me get some rest.” Darcy stamped her foot and pushed him away as the rest of the court melted into nothingness._

_“Such fire! I like you.” He laughed and changed from elaborate suit into green and black leather armor. “I want you to call them all together for me. Much easier if they’re all in one place.”_

_“That doesn’t help. Call what? What’s easier? Can you speak plainly for once?” She demanded but he too faded into darkness, shadows lengthening until the only light remained the flickering of the fire in the hearth. Gathering up her gown, she stepped closer, peering into the darkness until a shape of a man formed. Tall, bulky, face lost in the black, just the shine of light on the brown curls and bare skin of his shoulder. “Who are you?”_

_“The one you want.” Deep voice vibrated through her, leaving tremors that made her gasp with pleasure. “The one who can give you what you need.”_

_“I don’t know what I want.” She couldn’t get a good view of him in the dimness of the bedroom, knowing there was something different, something that was calling to a very primitive desire inside of her. “You’re not Bruce.”_

_He moved quickly crowding her back against the edge of the bed. “I am the best part of him, the passion he hides, the need he won’t admit.” He was looming over her ready to take her, have her. Poised on a knife edge of decision, he didn’t touch, just waited. “Let me teach you pleasure, little one, show you just how good I can make you feel. I will make you scream for me with the power in that voice until we shake the walls down around us.”_

_Both fearful and aroused, she caught a glimpse of those brown eyes filled with the same need she saw earlier and she made up her mind. To hell with the rest. It was only just a dream._

_“Yes.”_

_His dark chuckle rumbled as he wrapped his hands around her arms, pushed her backwards and buried his head in the curve of her neck as she spread her legs and welcomed him home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And next chapter will involve sex and kissing and some battle as things begin to heat up for our two couples.
> 
> All the emotions surrounding Bruce and his Berserker is intentional. In this universe, the Hulk represents all of Bruce's emotions, the feelings he represses and can't control, sort of a manifestation of his Id, if you will. The Berserker is careful to call himself Not Bruce, and, as he explains in this chapter to Darcy, he's the parts of Bruce that Bruce doesn't want. Passion, hunger, anger, frustration, rage, pure lust ... the Hulk isn't a mindless beast -- he's intelligent and fully aware of himself -- he's much more the beast inside of all of us that we try to control. In later chapters, I'll go further into the story of how the Hulk was created.


	5. I Have a Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Wait. You think they wanted us to flee to Philip so the two of us would meet? That’s … convoluted. Why not just come after me directly and leave the bloody knife in Clint’s hands? Nick would run him to the ground, Philip or no Philip.” 
> 
> “Huh.” Bruce was at a lost for a second; she was absolutely right and Bruce hadn’t expected that. Talk about underestimating someone. “If it was the Red Knight or Tarleton, that’s exactly what they’d do. Straightforward and destructive. But Prince Loki has plans within plans; he expects us to amuse him.” 
> 
> “Then we don’t do the expected,” she said with a careless shrug

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suffering from MAJOR writer's block this week, but I plowed through and got this chapter done. Things are beginning to pick up speed as Clint gently schools Philip on his attitude towards his sister and Darcy confronts the Berserker.

“Shhhh or someone will hear you.”

Clint bit his bottom lip, squeezing his eyes shut as if that would help hold his moan of pleasure inside. He could hear the ring of the blacksmith’s hammer hitting the anvil, low voices of the men working just next door, and the whinny of a horse as Andrew worked on cleaning its hoof.  The table beneath him creaked as Philip rocked into him; Clint clenched his hands on the far edge to push back. Gods, but it felt so good, the way Philip filled him, the thrust and retreat that sent little jolts of pleasure along his spine and down into his own hard and aching cock.

As he tried to push up on his elbows, Philip’s hand pressed against the back of Clint’s neck, forcing him down. Fingertips delved into his hair, emitting little charges of static that crawled along Clint’s skin. Philip’s second hand pressed into the small of his back, holding him still as he snapped his hips hard.

“Phil, that’s good, do that again.” This might be his fantasy of sex where others might find them, but he kept his voice down to a whisper. Music welled inside him and he wished he could get his hands on Philip to complete the circle. “I need to …”

“I know.” Philip leaned over and slid his hands over Clint’s linen covered arms, squeezing his biceps, and then lacing his fingers with Clint’s.  “Hold on.”

Philip’s breath was against his neck, tickling the hairs with each exhale, washing over his cheek as he turned his head. Little puffs from open lips as the pace increased in their race to the climax. Clint arched his hips up, changed the angle and then he groaned, long and loud as Philip hit the spot with every thrust.  He felt Philip’s almost silent chuckle near his ear, but he didn’t care anymore, so caught up in the music and the pleasure from being so close. As if he knew, Philip groaned himself, pushing in two more times before he came, spilling inside Clint for a long minute. 

“Come for me,” Philip whispered in Clint’s ear, letting go to reach around and stroke Clint’s aching cock, once twice, and then it pulsed in Philip’s hand as the tension seeped out of Clint’s body.  He lay there for a moment, the welcome weight of Philip on top of him then the chuckles bubbled up inside of him and he started to shake as he quietly laughed.

“Think anyone will notice?” Clint asked as they both pushed up and started to put themselves back together.  Philip cocked an eyebrow at him in question and Clint wiggled his ass towards his husband. “If I walk around like this all day?”

He saw the flash of lust in Philip’s eyes, the way his lips parted and he breathed out at the image. “I cannot believe this is my life now,” he said, tucking in his shirt. “It’s like one of those anonymous stories in a red leather book.”

“Ah, so you’ve read erotica, eh?” Clint tried to straighten up the table, put some of Bruce’s papers back to rights. “That doesn’t surprise me. It’s the quiet ones.”

“We’ll both need a bath later,” Philip said, ignoring Clint’s jibes. “I’ll tell Annamarie to get the tub out when I go up to check on Peter and the others.”

“Actually,” Clint caught Philip’s wrist and stilled him. “About them.”

The whole reason Clint had come down to the workshop had been to talk to Philip, but then he’d gotten sidetracked by Philip’s collarbone and had ended up being fucked over the table.  A very nice diversion from the morning’s long list of duties he had to accomplish, but it only put off this conversation. In the day since Philip’s younger brother and sister had arrived, it had become obvious that Philip had blinders on when it came to his family.  Peter he saw as potential, untrained and in need of a few more years of seasoning, but Philip seemed to be completely missing Darcy’s unique talents.

Philip stopped moving. “What?”

“Darcy’s dreams.” She’d told them about the strange images she was seeing. The fact that Loki was talking to her in her unconscious worried them all. Even stranger was the shared ones Philip and Darcy had in common. “She’s not telling us everything.”

Philip laughed, brushing aside Clint’s concern. “There isn’t anything more. That’s just her sense of humor at work.”

“She told Bruce she’d been dreaming about him.”  He’d been putting the pieces together and it all added up to something bigger. 

“Flirting isn’t her strong suit,” Philip said.

“Phil.” Clint stroked his fingers over Philip’s wrist. “I know Bruce has been having dreams too, but that’s just part of it. They marked each other yesterday.”

“No.” He stepped back, breaking the contact. “Wait. You think they’re …”

“Bonded?” Clint let Phillip go, let him work through it on his own. “Natasha was there, saw the whole thing.”

 “It doesn’t make any sense. Bruce, I can see; his berserker uses magic but Darcy?”

“That’s the point, Phil. You can’t see it.”

“If you’re suggesting Darcy’s a mage, I can promise you she’s never shown any characteristics of having any power. I think I would have noticed if she was shocking everyone like me.”

“You’re the one who told me that magic was different for each person. Why would all mages have the same abilities?” Clint watched as a myriad of emotions ran across Philip’s face. 

“We’ve never really known what Darcy’s talent was, just that she was bound to have one. That’s Fury’s talent … he sees potential and where to use it.” Philip rolled the idea around in his head. “I was obvious, now that I look back on it. Maria and Peter too, but Darcy’s been a mystery.”

“Loki’s trying to manipulate her. That’s enough proof for me. The Prince seems to know more about us than we do ourselves.” Clint eased into the next part. “And Sif said we were just the first couple.”

“Couple? No. Darcy’s nineteen and Bruce … Bruce is …” Philip protested. 

“What? Bruce is a clerk? Not a noble?” Clint didn’t think that was the issue, but Philip had been raised differently than Clint.

“Bruce is a good man. Gods, but he’d be a good sight better for Darcy than most of those lazeabouts at court.” Philip shook his head. “But so far, the talents manifesting have been the ones we needed the most. If that’s true, and we need a berserker? What does that say about what’s coming?

* * *

 

“Is that a bitter melon?” Darcy tucked her hair behind her ears as she bent down to see the leaves of the plant Bruce was working on. “May has some shoots of that in the greenhouse. Pretty rare.”

He sensed her coming down the hall and out into the garden, a happy spot in the sea of emotions he’d been riding. Ever since her arrival, Bruce had been bombarded with feelings; it was like a wall had fallen and he was wide open. All those years of careful work at protecting himself, building the strongest defenses he could, and they’d dissolved like no more than snow in her presence.

“Many of these are rare. Clint’s grandmother had a gift; I don’t know if I can bring some of them back.” She was close enough that Bruce could feel the way her body blocked the ripples of emotion from the people in the castle.

“Well, if I touch them, they’re sure to die.” She laughed, so easy that she had to do it often. “I am not the gardening type. I killed ivy. Ivy.”

He blinked at her. “Really? Nothing kills ivy. It’s one of the most invasive growths I know of.”

“Shriveled and brown means dead, pretty sure.” Gods but she was temptation rolled up in one amazing body. This near, he could see the flecks of gold in her blue eyes. 

“Should I ban you from the garden then?” He wasn’t sure what he was doing, flirting with her. It was like playing with fire. And yet he couldn’t stop himself from basking in the glow.

“Oh, that’s the exact way to ensure I’ll be here. Tell me not to do something and then I have to do it.” She shrugged as if her answer didn’t matter, but Bruce could tell it did. She talked a good game, but she used her indifference like armor. “I never have been all that good at following rules.”

“Maybe you just need to set your own,” Bruce suggested and his reward was a dazzling smile.

“I think we’re going to get along.” Darcy flipped a loose strand of hair out of her face. “I’ve already embarrassed you, so we’ve gotten that out of the way. You’re still talking to me. At least until I bring up the dream thing again.”

“Do you always say whatever comes into your mind?” Bruce found himself asking.  Words seemed to flow from her red lips without pause; he was the exact opposite. It wasn’t that he didn’t talk or couldn’t be eloquent if he wanted to, he just preferred to not be the center of attention, to stay in the shadows. Even before the accident, he kept a tight rein on himself. Better seen than heard, his father had always said, and Bruce had taken that adage to heart.

“Pretty much,” she said with a chuckle. “And don’t think I’m going to let you get out of answering the big question. I tracked you down and came outside on this cool day; that took effort.”

“Should I ask or are you going to tell me anyway?” He knew she was going to keep going until she’d said what she wanted to and, if he was honest, he was enjoying the conversation. His other half was, for once, the quiet one; the biggest surprise yesterday was the moments where the berserker inside coexisted calmly for a few moments. That had never happened; every moment was a struggle to keep the raw emotions at bay. He was tired, always tired, of fighting himself.

“Dreams, Bruce. Are you having dreams too?” She put her hands on her hips and dared him to not answer.  Such fire in her eyes and strength in her stance; there was no way to lie to her.

“I am,” he admitted, “but dreams are easily manipulated. We can’t know for sure exactly what they mean. “

“Loki really wants to dance with me?” she laughed. “The red dragon was very exciting, but why would someone put you in my head?”

“Create divisions between Clint and Fury? You’re Fury’s heir, destined to make an advantageous marriage. It’s an old trick; sow the seeds of dissension to divide and conquer.” That’s one explanation; Bruce had thought of at least four scenarios.

“Well if that true, he’s made a serious mistake. I’m not up for the highest bidder; I get a say in my future.” When Darcy got worked up, her eyes flashed and her cheeks flushed; it was a very endearing look that spoke to Bruce. She didn’t hold back, letting what she was feeling show. “I’ve been trained to take care of myself; I’m the one who thought to come here when all the other places were compromised.”

“Convenient wasn’t it? Lord Fury’s known for his planning and preparedness, yet something happened that made this the logical place to come,” Bruce said gently. The story that Peter told Annamarie when they arrived rung all sorts of warning bells. The young man was much more cognizant and clear when he wasn’t arguing with his brother. Once they realized that Loki was the one appearing to Darcy, Bruce had made the connection.

“Wait. You think they wanted us to flee to Philip so the two of us would meet? That’s … convoluted. Why not just come after me directly and leave the bloody knife in Clint’s hands? Nick would run him to the ground, Philip or no Philip.”

“Huh.” Bruce was at a lost for a second; she was absolutely right and Bruce hadn’t expected that. Talk about underestimating someone. “If it was the Red Knight or Tarleton, that’s exactly what they’d do. Straightforward and destructive. But Prince Loki has plans within plans; he expects us to amuse him.”

“Then we don’t do the expected,” she said with a careless shrug, as if the answer was so simple. “I can do adult, you know.”

He didn’t make a conscious decision; one second he was thinking how to answer and then he gave her a gentle easy brush of lips. A sip, not a drink, and a taste of her sweetness that lasted no more than three heartbeats before he pulled back. Her eyes were wide, her lips parted as she breathed out, and Bruce had never wanted anything more than he wanted her right now, to kiss her again and hold her in his arms. But that wouldn’t solve anything no matter how good he would …

Her hands curled around his jaw, heated palms running smoothly across his skin. Leaning in, she initiated another kiss, tilting her head and slanting her mouth across his. Nothing like his dreams, she wasn’t perfect, she was real, lips chapped at the edges, a little too eager, not inexperienced, but an edge of vulnerability that told Bruce she was far from worldly. His other self rumbled, unfolded and spread to just under Bruce’s skin, testing the boundaries.

One kiss turned to two and three, short grazes grew longer and deeper. His hand fisted into her hair, untangling it from the bonds that held it back and he lost himself in the calm that surrounded him, her touch overriding the other emotions battering for his attention.  There was just Darcy, vibrant, alive, energetic, a flame that drew Bruce like a moth. The mark on his wrist flared in response and he wrapped her in his arms and tugged her closer; she came willingly, eager to press her body against his, her breasts full and heavy, unconstrained by a corset. 

 _Yes_ , the Berserker practically sang. _I want more._

The power pulsed, as uncontrolled as the Berserker’s anger, overwhelming Bruce. He was going to hurt her or lose himself to the other, to all the feelings that bubbled up inside of him.

“Bruce.” Her voice was like honey on a sore throat, her hands healing heat that began to burn away the edges, smoothing the energy flowing out of him, shaping it into magic like he’d never felt before. “Gods, Bruce, is this real?”

The sting of the second mark was nothing compared to fierce joy of the Berserker, the way he opened so readily, accepting the spark without question, not worry or doubt, just acknowledgement that this was as it should be. The two of them, more together than apart.

“Darcy, there you are … Oh!” Jane stopped, her eyes widened then she turned her back as they separated. “Philip asked us to meet him in the study.”

As Darcy’s hands slipped away, Bruce thought he’d been slammed with the force of the emotions again, but the calm she’d give him lingered as the mark on his face still throbbed.

“Your face,” Darcy whispered. “I can see my handprint still.”

There wasn’t much Bruce could do about; the mark would fade, so he turned away from the doorway as Darcy ran her fingers through her disarrayed hair. With a huff, Jane, who was watching Darcy’s efforts over her shoulder, made short work of pulling out a few more strands and artfully arranging them around Darcy’s face in a whimsical style that looked planned.

“I can’t do anything about the flush on your face, but at least stop making doe eyes at him for a few seconds,” she ordered.  “The chatelaine was headed this way too.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Darcy replied, looking back at Bruce and ignoring the suggestion completely.  “You, I’ll talk to later.”

Bruce watched her go, the sway of hips earning a hum of pleasure from his other side who was still sharing his eyes. The recriminations would start soon enough, but right now he was hot and bothered and he’d forgotten just how good that felt.

* * *

 

Parts of her were tingling, not the butterflies that stories talked about but more like a thousand pinpricks of heat that stole her breath away. She’d kissed men before, but this? That hadn’t been a kiss, it had flipped her world upside down, reorienting her towards her destiny. And that was a flight of fancy that she rarely indulged in, another thing that had changed in just twenty four hours. She was turning into a romantic.

“So,” Jane asked in a hushed whisper. “Tell me everything.”

They were cutting through the hall that passed the kitchen, on their way to the study. Darcy was barely aware of the people passing them. The back of her neck was still warm from Bruce’s hand, her lips sensitive; she ran her thumb absently along the curve, the phantom weight of Bruce a comfort.

“He thinks that Loki is trying to cause trouble, throwing us in each other’s paths, family feud, star crossed, like in those old stories.” She knew there was a bit of truth in that; Nick always lectured her on behaving ‘in a way benefiting her stature as his thane.’ Who was courting her, Nick didn’t care as long as she understood that everything she did could give fodder to their enemies. She didn’t like it, had been less than helpful when she was younger, but she did understand court politics. Stupid, silly and frustrating, but she’d finally realized that, maybe, Nick had a point. Not that she would tell him that.

But a relationship with Bruce, while it would make the gossip mongers more than happy for the short cycle of court scandals, would cause only a few ripples. Darcy was already on the Widow’s Circle’s bad list; the group of older Ladies who had far too much money and nothing else to do with their time than terrorize the court with their wagging tongues. Their blessing on a proposed match was tantamount to entrée into the inner circles. They actually ranked potential noble suitors and stuck their fingers into everyone’s business.  Darcy took it as a badge of honor that she was deemed the one of the worst potentials, putting her in the esteemed company of Tony Stark.

So linking her name with a clerk in a Northern holding would only add to her bad reputation. In fact, Nick would probably figure out a way to use it to his advantage. Kissing Bruce certainly wouldn’t affect the alliance between Fury and Barton; it wouldn’t be hard for the Widow’s Circle to believe that Fury had decided to send Darcy to the hinterlands, a fate they’d see as worth than death.

“I thought Prince Loki was intelligent,” Jane responded. “That’s a dumb plan. He didn’t do his research.” She huffed at that thought; careful and thorough in her studies, she had no time for people who rushed things.

“I know. It’s more likely …” She whipped her head around at the crash that came from the kitchen. Loud shouts, more crashes, and Nathan came dashing out the door, running pell mell down the corridor. A rush of bodies – two scullery maids and other kitchen workers – followed, voices raised and shouting alarms.

As the others fled, Darcy ran straight to the door and into the kitchen, a habit that no one seemed able to break her of, Jane right behind her. Inside, she saw the chef, a tall, bald black man, swinging a rolling pin at a man with a sword.  Another woman, dark haired and swearing like a sailor, was grappling with another attacker; she slammed him backwards into a prep table, half-chopped vegetables spilling over the floor. Three more men were crowding in through the outer door, trying to overwhelm the two.

Without thinking, Darcy grabbed the nearest pot she could find, a black iron skillet, and swung it hard up against the side of one of the attacker’s head. He crumpled to the ground and the chef took that opportunity to press forward, pushing the others back. Hands grabbed at her sleeves, trying to get a hold on her, but she kept swinging, connecting with any part of their body that she could.

“Stop that!” She shouted; she could see now that they were wearing guard uniforms that told her they were Clint’s men.

“Yeah,” the dark haired woman said as she kneed her assailant in the groin. “Stop this or you’re never getting under my skirts again.”

Darcy laughed at that, distracted by the comment long enough that a blonde, bulky guy got his hand around her wrist and yanked her towards the door.

“Got her,” he growled. “Let’s go.”

Bruce’s marks flared on her skin and Darcy could swear she heard a howl somewhere, a deep vibration running through her.

“Hey!” A potato barreled into the man’s temple; he winced and let go. Jane launched another projectile, hitting the man squarely. “Leave her alone.”

Attention torn between the two of them, the man hesitated and Darcy used her pan again, knocking him sideways onto the hearth. The black cauldron simmering over the coals swung and boiling water spilled over the side onto the man’s outstretched arm. He screamed as he fell, clutching the wound to his chest.

The chef chased the remaining men outside and Darcy followed, second through the door, hefting the skillet. She made it three steps before arms caught her from behind. It was a hold that Maria had taught her how to break; kicking back with her heel, she got his knee on the second try as she bit down on the arm wrapped around her shoulders. He cursed and loosened his grip enough for her to elbow him in the gut, shove him backwards and break free. Spinning, she used the pan instead of her knee and connected right between his legs. This time, he howled.

“That’s the Maria Hill special,” she told the hunched over form. “You’ll remember that in the morning.”

Red flashed in her vision and she saw a woman spin, kicking another of the guards backwards. More of the guards were coming around the corner of the store house and the woman turned to Darcy.

“Should I order you back into the manor?” The woman asked, cocking an eyebrow on her expressively stony face. Maria had described Thane Natasha perfectly.

“Nope,” Darcy answered, forcefully cheerful. “Jane maybe, but not me.”

“Then stay on my left and try not to permanently hurt them,” Natasha did make that an order, and Darcy was more than happy to follow it.

“Got it. Magical spell, save the person, knock sense back in them.” She held the skillet up and wished desperately she hadn’t donned her skirt this morning. Natasha had on a sleek pair of leather pants. “Bring ‘em on.”

“Clint is going to love you,” the Thane replied before she stepped forward and punched an approaching attacker in throat. He tumbled over with no more than a squeak.

It only took a minute before Darcy wished she’d paid better attention to Maria’s lessons about fighting in a crowd. So many hands reached for her as the guards tried to circle around, box her in. They didn’t come one at a time, but all at once, a sea of faces and arms that she seemed to be the center of. She tried to pick her targets, but ended up swinging in wide arcs, happy to catch an elbow or a shoulder as much as a more vulnerable target.

Potatoes knocked a few out and Darcy caught a glimpse of Jane in the relative safety of the kitchen doorway, lobbing her makeshift missiles with the deadly accuracy of a rock skipping champion. The chef was still there, whacking men with his rolling pin. It appeared they were gaining ground, keeping the possessed men at bay, then Darcy stumbled and arms pinned her, a fist connected with her cheek, and then he was tossing her over his shoulder before she could react. She knew the bandaged forehead; kicking and thrashing about she tried to free herself.

“Dooley!” She got her free hand on his sword belt and searched for his knife. “DOOLEY!” He paused in his path away from the manor. “What are you doing?” She demanded.

“Taking you to him,” he answered.

The response floored Darcy; she certainly hadn’t been expecting one. “Taking me? Taking me where?”

“East. To the mountains. Caer Parley.” He lost focus as he spoke, and she pushed away, sliding to the ground. The violent blue was flickering in his eyes; he squinted, his brows drawn together.

“Why?” She pressed. The fight raged on around her, but she put all her attention on him. “Why me?”

“So you can call them all. He wants your magic.”

None of it made sense the second time either; Loki had told her the same thing but she still had no idea what it meant. “Who, Dooley? Who wants me?”

The man began to shake, hands flying to grip his head. He dropped to his knees, tremors growing stronger as a trickle of blood slid from his nostril. “I don’t … I can’t … I …” Tears of pain leaked from the corner of his eyes as he grimaced, fighting to speak.

“Hey, hey.” Darcy put her hands over his. “Stop, okay? Stop trying. It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me. Relax. Just let it go.”

A long breath out, and Dooley slumped down, chest rising and falling, gradually slowing to a normal pattern. Blinking, he looked up, the whites of his eyes filled with red blood vessels, confused and unsure. “Darcy? What’s going on? How did I get here?”

“You were under a spell,” Natasha answered for her. She’d come up silently and Darcy realized the rest of the attackers were in various stages of consciousness around them.

“Like Craig and the others? Did we bring it with us?” He tried to get up, but Darcy put a hand on his shoulder.

“Darcy!” Jane’s shout interrupted them; she was pointing at the path up from the practice field. Shambling their way was a group of the golem creatures and at least five more guard.

“Fire. We need fire,” Darcy said.

The roar shook the ground, a roof tile sliding off the store house. He came from the direction of the garden, feet pounding on the packed earth, eating up distance at a fast pace. Big. He was bigger than in her dreams, a good hand and a half above other men. Muscular chest and arms, legs and thighs, shirt ripped at the seams. In seconds he was upon the group, wading into the pack of golems and tossing them like rag dolls, ripping them apart with his bare hands. They scattered, but kept coming at Darcy. Dooley staggered up and gripped his sword, swaying but on his feet. Beside Darcy, Natasha bounced on the balls of her feet, ready for the onslaught.

Time slowed and Darcy watched the way the Berserker’s body moved, compact, massive, and raw power. He hit his enemy head on, big hands sinking in and tearing the sewn together monsters back apart. No doubt or time for introspection, he acted, and she felt it in her bones, a sympathetic surge of magic that shared his strength with her. Burning bright in the night – the words popped unbidden in her mind. Fearful symmetry. That’s what he was. Terrifying like a force of nature. Male personified in his sensual perfection.

“He’s going to kill them,” Natasha said; the Berserker had run through the golems and was turning his attention to the guards. “We need Philip and Clint. They have the best chance at stopping him.”

Innocent men caught in a sorcerer’s spell. She couldn’t let him do it; darting around the man in front of her, she closed the distance in just a few steps, coming to a stop between the Berserker and the possessed men. People shouted her name, but she didn’t hesitate to put her hands on her hips and glare up at him.

“Stop right there.” She channeled her best Philip tone. “You can’t hurt them.”

“Oh, I can.” His voice was rich and deep, Bruce’s covered in pure sin. “They want to hurt you. I will not let them.”

“They’re under a spell, big guy.” That was fear, she supposed, clenching up her muscles and making her breathe so shallowly. But fear was cold, right? Not a spreading warmth that stole her ability to think. “We don’t want to kill them just wake them up.”

One of the possessed guards rushed her; the Berserker calmly backhanded him and sent him spinning into the small wall that separated the path from the herb garden.

“He touched you.” Thick fingers stroked the throbbing bruise along her cheekbone. “Tell me who so I can kill him.” She had to bite her lip to keep a little moan inside, the light graze as stirring as the earlier kisses.

“In case you missed it, I am quite capable of taking care of myself.” She waved the pan in front of him. “I’m not as elegant as Natasha or as strong as you, but, and this is important, you don’t want to suggest I’m unable to protect myself. Because, first, you wouldn’t like me when I’m angry and, second, I know you don’t want a helpless female. You want me because I’m not scared of you.”

He hunched down and stared at her, the action making it feel like he was all around her. Careful to keep his hands to himself, he perused her from head to toe, lingering on her hair that had come free, the way her breasts rose and fell, and the little flicks of her tongue to moisten her lips. In return, she called up the memory of her last dream, the dark room, shared bed and suddenly she knew she wasn’t scared at all, she was so aroused that a red stain crept into her cheeks.

Suspended between the tension of the moment, he blinked first. He threw his head back and laughed, a booming sound that carried all around the manor. “You are perfect, Darcy Lewis,” he said.

“And you really are one handsome hulk of a man, aren’t you?” She shot back. Glancing around she saw Natasha tying up the last of the guards; the dark-haired woman from the kitchen had a metal pail and was using a long handled spoon to fling burning coals on to the remaining creatures. “Now, if we’ve come to a mutually satisfying conclusion, you can rip through those golem things to your heart’s content. There might be more around.”

“Oh, we will be mutually satisfied. Count on it.” One corner of his mouth turned up in a lopsided grin that shouldn’t be so sexy, but it was. Faster than she imagined, he snagged a hand around her waist and was kissing her, lifting her off the ground and letting her feet dangle. If kissing Bruce had turned her around, kissing the Berserker turned her inside out and left her a puddle of want and desire. He didn’t ask, he took, his tongue caressing the inside of her mouth as his hand curled around her ass and pressed her up against his chest. When he sat her back down, she almost toppled over, just barely staying upright in her dazed state; the lascivious wink he gave before he turned and loped off in search of more prey promised much more of the same.

“Darcy.”

Oh. Oh no. She’d completely forgotten everything but Bruce and the Berserker during their kiss. “Philip. I can explain …” she started, frantically thinking of what to say.

“Later.” He was kneeling beside one of the unconscious guards. He knelt beside one of the guards in Barton livery, touching two fingers to the man’s chest and his other hand to the forehead, and closed his eyes.  She felt the gentle tug and felt the backwash; it grew stronger, a forceful pull and wave that crashed back, stirring up words that sounded in her ears. _There will be time to murder and create … works and days of hands … time for you and time for me_.

“What is it?” Clint put his hand on Philip’s shoulder and Darcy could swear she felt the weight on her own. The love between them was palpable, bright and as plain as someone said _let us roll all our strength and all our sweetness into one ball_.

“It’s not the same; it’s … a different kind of magic. Wrapped around their heart and maybe even their soul.” Philip tried again. Magic. That’s what she was feeling, this overwhelming trigger for memories and words that tumbled out.

“Do I dare,” she said, not even aware of what she was doing, “disturb the universe? In a minute there is time for decisions and revisions which a minute win reverse.”

A rough wind whipped out from her; Clint staggered but stayed on his feet as doors slammed shut. The pieces of golem turned to dust, blowing away. Dooley sat down, hard, and all eyes turned towards Darcy.

“What?” She protested, uncomfortable with the attention. “Philip’s the one who made me read all those moldy texts, so you can’t blame me for remembering them.”

“Blurting out poetry? She’s definitely your sister.” He nudged Philip, his joke breaking the tension.

“Darce, why did you say that specific line?” Philip asked. The man on the ground stirred and groaned. “It’s okay, Salinas,” Philip said. “Lie still until I check for broken bones.”

“Because you said the other one, your favorite part, remember?” Was he being dense on purpose? Had she done something wrong? “It just seemed, I don’t know, the right thing to do.”

“I think I may have been wrong,” Clint said. “You may not be the strongest mage in your family.”

“Me?” That shocked her. “What? No. Serious? All I did was open my mouth. That’s never a good thing.”

More men were stirring, trying to sit up. In the distance, they heard a familiar roar. “This can wait until the fighting is over,” Philip said, taking charge like he always did. For once Darcy was happy to let him. “Right now I need your help with the wounded. You and Jane help do a quick once over to see who can be moved into the main hall and who needs to stay here.”

“Can do,” she agreed quickly.

“And Darcy, we will talk about this … all of it … later.”

Oh, yes, that was the Philip she knew all too well.

* * *

 

“Whatever Darcy did cut the ties of the spell connecting all of the people,” Clint was saying from the bench by the fireplace. They had to meet in the main hall because it was the only place big enough for all of them. Philip wasn’t terribly happy about the openness and ease of eavesdropping, but with Natasha, Jessica, Carol, Peter, Darcy, Jane, Annamarie, Dax, Rachel, and Missouri, they really didn’t have a choice but to bring the map out and lay the shield on a table. His brain was reeling from the afternoon’s revelations. As each person went through their report on what happened, Philip couldn’t help but dwell on the kiss. Seeing Darcy and Bruce’s Berserker locked in a passionate embrace had thrown him into confusion. It was one thing to think about the two of them in the abstract, Bruce especially, but to see the lustful look in the Berserker’s eyes? He was her big brother after all and it had long been his job to protect her. Turning that off wasn’t going to be easy.

And yet, she’d faced down the raging beast without hesitation and he’d listened to her. That, in and of itself, was worth investigating. No one had tried to stand between the Berserker and his quarry; Darcy acted as if it was not that important. She simply didn’t realize how dangerous what she did was. Always with her, rushing into the fray instead of staying safe. She should have stayed in the kitchen, not run out into the yard … but that was an old argument that wasn’t going to gain Philip anything right now, so he shelved it for the moment.

“She broke the spell with Dooley first,” Natasha pointed out. “He answered her questions and then just woke up.”

“Darcy, could you go over what he said? Everything you heard and saw?” Clint asked. Philip was glad his husband had taken the lead on this meeting; he was cementing his role as Lord of the manor as well as command of the guard, but he was also more objective. Yelling at his sister was a very real possibility if Philip was doing the asking.

“Again?” Darcy’s voice was little petulant, but then she was looked tired. Purple and red already mottled her cheek and, if she’d really used enough magic to break the spell, she had to be feeling the loss of that power. Plus, a little voice in Philip’s head added, if she and Bruce were bonding, she could be getting bleed over from his exhaustion after a berserk episode. She had already talked to Carol and Natasha, but Philip wanted to hear for himself. “Sure,” she agreed, sipping the mug of cider to clear the last of the bite of meat pie she’d taken. Dinner, as to be expected, was cold cuts, the meat pies already prepared for tomorrow’s lunch, cheese, bread, and some dried fruit. Dax was hard at work putting the kitchen back in order.

She told the story from start to finish. When she mentioned the location, Philip spun the map and looked at Missouri who looked entirely too smug. “Caer Parley?” he asked, interrupted. Darcy glared but shook her head in the affirmative.

“You doubted me,” Missouri said, crossing her arms over her chest.  The location she’d marked, the one that made no sense, between Stark and Barton land was literally right on top of the hilltop famous as the place Lord Rogers signed a pact of non-aggression with the Lord Stark of his time.

“Not anymore.” Philip tapped the spot. “Rachel, make Missouri that cinnamon breakfast bread she likes so much. She deserves it.”

“Okay, we have a location; now we need to do some recon to see what’s there. After we figure out a way to protect us from that damn spell. I’m not sending men out just to have the sorcerer send them right back at us.” Clint absently covered Philip’s hand with his own; Philip saw the telltale blink from Peter at the move.

“The problem is that this is a different spell from the first one. Bruce and I need to do some more research, read the grimoire, talk to Bobby Singer, maybe …” He was thinking about it already, had been since he’d accepted that magic was real. Some sort of amulet that could be enspelled once and worn by a person. Bruce had been chasing the right spell.

“Philip.” Darcy interrupted. Her eyes were at half-mast.

“Just a minute, Darcy.” He needed to think, to plan. “We could talk to locals. Isn’t that Thomas land? See who has relatives they’ve been in contact with to give us the lay of the land. A number of them might have been here for the fall festival.”

“I’ll take Eve Thomas,” Jessica offered. “I’ve worked with her when I was doing the accounts. She keeps her father, the Laird’s, books and she very bright.”

“What about Sam Wilson? He travels that road in his wagon?” Natasha threw out. “We should send for him.” At Clint’s nod, she waved Billy off towards town to get the tinker.

“Excuse me.” This time Darcy’s voice was edged with steel and Philip’s head whipped around. So did Clint’s and everyone else’s. The tendrils of power curled along his spine, a reminder that they had yet to deal with the elephant in the room.

“Yes, Darcy?” Clint’s reply was matched hers, clipped and tense. She wilted under his stare and looked much younger than her nineteen years for a moment. Then she drew herself up and continued.

“Dooley said that he … the sorcerer, we’re assuming, right? … wants me to call them all, whatever they are. That’s the second time I’ve heard that; Loki told me the same thing in my dream last night. Maria said you didn’t know about your magic, Phil, until you needed to use it. Has it occurred to anyone that crazy Loki guy and unknown bad guy are trying to make my magic come out so they can use it?”

He forgot how smart she was; cutting right to the heart of the matter was one of her gifts. It wasn’t always welcome, too blunt, too truthful, but she always could see straight through lies and manipulation.

“Bonding increases abilities, as we all well know.”

Bruce leaned against the doorway, shoulders slumped and head resting on the stone. He shuffled into the room; Darcy beat them all to him, slipping beneath one arm and helping him to a bench.

“Are you alright?” He asked before she could speak, running a finger along the edge of her bruised face. Philip felt the stir of magic from the simple touch. That was his answer, one he couldn’t ignore. The faintest hand mark shone on Bruce’s jaw, energy passing between them and shoring both up.

“Better than you,” she joked. “Trying to get these guys to listen to my theory.”

“It’s a good one, Darce,” Philip told her. “With what happened today, the way you talked Dooley out of the spell and stopped the Berserker from hurting the men, well, the idea of calling an item might be worth reading up on.”

“Wait, what? You talked to him?” he sat up and looked first at Darcy and then towards Philip. “You can’t do that, Darcy. He’s dangerous. I can’t control what he does; all he thinks about is killing.”

“It’s fine. We had a meeting of the minds. I just explained that he didn’t want to annoy me and he agreed.” Darcy shrugged that infuriating way she had of pretending to not see the implications of her actions. She knew quite well how risky stepping in front of the Berserker had been. “He’s really not what you think.”

“Darcy,” Bruce was rattled, fingers clenching against his thighs. “He’s a monster. You can’t go near him.”

“I will tell you the same thing I told him. I can protect myself. Don’t make the mistake of assuming I can’t.” She was working herself into a temper, Philip knew from experience. The last thing they needed right now was Darcy to lose her tenuous control on her emotions. Bruce was already shifting uncomfortably in his seat, the fight starting to escalate.

“Lady Lewis.” Clint intervened. “Clerk Banner. While this is an important conversation, perhaps it is better saved for after everyone is rested and in a better frame of mind. Right now, however, I’d like to hear more about this idea of calling items.”

Turning back to the map, Clint winked at Philip. “Anyone want to bet that the items are Lord Rogers’ armor?”

“Oh! Of course! That’s so obvious.” She walked back to the table and looked down at the shield. “Wouldn’t that be nice, just say a few words or make some silly sound and they come flying this way? Maybe one of those silly love songs like, what’s the one Aunt May likes so much? Right! _Come to me in my dreams, my love!  I will not ask for more than this. Come to me in starlight, my love and press my eyelids with your kiss.”_

Metal rattled and the shield spun, knocking the map off the table as it levitated. Everyone jumped back as it began to glow with a blue light, rays spilling out. Four beams grew brighter, three shooting off at almost compass points for east, west, and south. A fourth shimmered and wavered from wall to hallway to the main doors. It cut right through Natasha’s midsection and she gasped as blue flowed around her, bathing her in the light.

So intent on the shield, Philip didn’t see Darcy’s collapse until Bruce had caught her in his arms, her body limp. The light died as fast as it began.

“She’s breathing,” Bruce announced, sitting down but refusing to let her go. When Philip started to touch her, Bruce pulled away, a deep growl issuing from his throat. Palms up, Philip waited until the green faded from Bruce’s face.

“I need to check her.” He didn’t move until Bruce gave a jerky nod. Heart and head, he closed his eyes and closed the circle. “She’s fine; she’s drained herself and needs rest, uninterrupted sleep. Jane? Can you show Bruce to your room?”

“I’ll help.” Annamarie stood. “Teddy, tell Kim to we need warm water and the fire punched up in the room.”

For a moment, he thought Bruce was going to argue. The clerk was fighting his own battle for control; fatigue and concern won over possessiveness. He followed the women out of the room, Darcy’s long tresses spilling down his arm as he cradled her close.

“Never let it be said we live in boring times,” Jessica said. “Have we had enough for one day or is fate going to throw another rock in our path?”

The door to the hall banged open and Richardson, one of the evening guard, entered in a rush. “Lord Barton, Lord Coulson, there’s a party approaching, Armed to the teeth and flying a banner in the colors of Asgard.”

“You just had to say something, didn’t you?” Carol asked Jessica who looked abashed at the turn of events.

“I was joking,” she protested.

“Loki, lovely. Just what we need.” Clint rubbed his face with his hand.

“Beggin’ your pardon, my Lord, but Loki’s banner had a silver snake. This one has a hammer and a lightning bolt. And the one in the front is blonde.”

Philip sat down with a thump. “Thor. That’s Crown Prince Thor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the first "Bonds of Old," Thor started towards Barton Manor, thus his arrival now. 
> 
> Continuing with the trend of Disney and kid's movies, I think you can get the reference in this chapter. *wink*
> 
> For the eagle eyes among you, the lines Darcy hears are from some famous poems. You didn't think she'd be trained by Philip and not know classic literature? In order of appearance, the poems are "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T. S. Eliot (because, yes, that would be one of Phil's favorites and I might have to write that into my other Phil/Clint series), "To His Coy Mistress" by Andrew Marvell (which is perfectly suited for Bruce and Darcy, plus one of the sexiest poems of all time), and "Oh, Come to Me" by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, a popular song of her time.


	6. Once Upon a Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thor arrives, Philip has to face the truth about his sister's powers, and Darcy asks for some advice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long to update. We had a death in the family and things got very hectic for a week here. So you get two chapters in one day!

The noise level in the hall had risen the more alcohol consumed, and Prince Thor was in a class all his own when it came to handling his liquor. Preconceptions aside, Thor had turned out to be as opposite of Loki as a brother could be. True, Loki was not a bloodline son of King Odin and Queen Frigga like Thor, but he had been raised by the same mother. Thor, in his blonde golden splendor, was definitely nobility; he was the center of attention, accepting it as his due, but he was all on the surface, his thoughts and feelings easy to read. None of Loki’s dark, pale manipulations and plots within plots; Thor was a warrior who relied upon strength to solve problems. Interested in sussing out the truth of the report that Lady Sif had given him when they’d met crossing the mountains, Thor was happy to have the quick repast Dax had managed to produce for them. As soon as he’d learned of the afternoon’s attack, he’d declared that they would share confidences in the morning after a toast to celebrate the victory.

“My friends!” Thor declared, lifting his mug. Philip had made sure they used the pewter ones that could be hammered back into shape rather than the few glasses they had. “To a warm welcome and a future alliance!”

Everyone raised their cups, or at least those still drinking. Carol had declined from the start, using her position as a reason to stay sober. Jessica had stuck with cider and Natasha seemed none the worse for wear despite keeping up with Thor and his Thane Fandral, one of the famous Warriors Three. Philip, however, was staring into his amber colored whiskey, wondering just how many drinks he’d had; somewhere along the way he’d lost count. What he did know was that his hand was resting on Clint’s thigh, stroking lightly, right where anyone could see it. Power was sparking between them, easily visible. And he didn’t care. The nearness of Clint, the heat in his belly from the liquor, and his half-hard cock were telling him to slide his hand even higher.

It was a good thing, he thought, that Bruce hadn’t returned from carrying Darcy back to her room; Annamarie had passed along the message that Bruce retired to his own bed to sleep off his exhaustion. The last thing the clerk needed was to be questioned by an Asgardian Prince. Thor had asked to be introduced to their berserker; seen as an affliction in the Midlands, in Asgard, Berserkers were celebrated and treated as the greatest of heroes. Philip wasn’t sure how Bruce would handle that, but rested and in the morning was bound to be better than tonight.

“To defeating our common enemy!” Fandral added. He had availed himself of the bench shared by Jessica and Natasha, turning his charm on all three of the thanes. Natasha wasn’t impressed, but Jessica was more than a little taken by the blonde, but she was trying to hide it. Carol had indulged in a long look Thor’s way before she fell back into watching the proceedings, her normal mode of operation. The prince was … impressive. Philip could admit that without feeling threatened by the fact that Clint was sitting right next to the big buff blonde. His husband was listening to Thor’s current tale about hunting some big monster in the mountains – there was a blizzard and very long claws, Philip seemed to remember – but Clint’s own hand was on Philip’s thigh, warm fingers tracing patterns on the inner sensitive skin. Thank the heavens that Thor had flirted shamelessly with all three thanes, making his preferences clear. Philip was feeling far too possessive, staring at his husband’s profile and noticing for the thirty ninth time, just how changeable the color of his eyes were. Everything was fuzzy except for Clint’s eyes; they were as gorgeous as ever. A slow smile crept across Clint’s face, and he shifted in his seat, edging Philip’s hand a little higher.

“Aye, assuming we can tell friend from foe,” Clint agreed. They’d spoken in passing about the possessed attackers, a phenomenon that the Asgardians were more than familiar with from forays on their side of the mountains. “I’m loathe to send men out only to have to fight them in return.”

“Do your people not have protection from compulsion?” Fandral asked. He touched a small stone on a piece of leather that was tied around his neck. “This rune, once magicked, will keep the integrity of the wearer’s soul. I know warriors who have tattooed it upon their bodies to ensure they never lose it.”

“Aye, I have one of my own,” Thor held his out and Philip squinted at the intricate circle surrounded by stylized rays. Something niggled in the back of his head, but his brain was too soaked in whiskey to bring it into focus.

“You know how to do this?” Philip asked. “We have thought of such a thing but didn’t know how to craft it.”

“Alas, I do not. I have only a little of the bardic magic in me, a taste of music and song and a love of fine poetry. It takes a more powerful skald to do so. Were we at court, you could buy one from Bragi Boddason; he is making quite a name for himself designing them,” Fandral said.

“Skald? As in a singer?” Jessica asked. “I’ve never heard that term.”

“A skald is only one kind of bard; there are poets and scops among others. Most have only the gift of rhythm and rhyme, but there are those for whom words are weapons. They say that Snorri Sturluson could sing a world into being and that his _Prose Edda_ is the very song of creation,” Thor explained.

“What is that story of the Midlander bard, the one who sang his way into the underworld to save his beloved? I know I’ve heard it; Bridgette sings it quite prettily,” Fandral asked Thor.

“Orpheus and Eurydice,” Philip supplied. He knew that tale. Very, very old, but only a myth. Of course, he used to believe revenants and golems were myths as well.

“Indeed!” Thor thumped the table. “Freya always cries at the end of that one.”

“According to the histories, the last Chief of Bards in the Midlands was Taliesin and that was … five generations ago. He fought with King Bran the Blessed at Mount Badon, if the stories are true.” Philip loved that particular tale; it seemed more like history than some of the others with names of real nobles and places Philip could actually visit. It didn’t bother him that King Bran was more than likely an amalgam of three different kings of the time; the idea of a group of thanes, equal in stature, who all fought for right, not for power, was very seductive. And suddenly he was thinking of Clint as the handsome knight of the tales who risked all for love. His cock hardened even more as he spun an elaborate romance in his head of a knight and a scholar who …

“Aye, that sounds familiar. Was Bran not betrayed by his own son? So completely Asgardian!” Fandral laughed, interrupting Philip’s train of thought, and finished the last his drink.

“Too true,” Philip agreed. His cock won the argument and he pushed back his chair, attempting to stand up and managing to do so with just a little wobble. “I hesitate to disrupt the evening, but Clint and I have much to do in the morning, so I believe we shall call it a night. Please, feel free to stay and partake of all we can offer.” He nodded to Annamarie who came around again offering refills as he used Clint’s shoulder to steady himself.

“I think, Lord Barton, you best take your husband to bed.” Thor grinned and raised a cup to them both. “I believe I too will avail myself of your proffered room; alas, I will be alone. You have been very open with your home; my men will rest easy in your guard house. As to Fandral, well,” he winked the other man’s way. “He is an adult and makes his own choices.”

“That I do,” Fandral said with a rogue’s smile for the ladies on either side. “But I will also say good night. We have tomorrow to get further acquainted. Perhaps some sparring if there’s time?”

“I am sure we can arrange something during your visit,” Philip said, wrapping his arm around Clint’s bicep and pulling him up. Clint slipped an arm around Philip’s waist as he started to fall backwards; the move gave him a reason to wind himself closer to Clint.

“Of course.” Fandral was hiding his smile; he inclined his head towards Philip. “Until the morning then.”

Clint already had his hand and was pulling him out of the hall towards the back stairway, and Philip knew he’d had too much alcohol when the risers were closer than he thought, his feet scuffing on them and throwing him off balance. Had Clint not been with him, he might have tumbled back down. On the other hand, Clint was almost sober; his father had been a drunkard and, while Clint often shared a glass of wine or a mug of ale, he rarely went beyond that. In fact, Philip had never seen him drink more than two cups. and tonight he’d sipped his drink very slowly.

“You are drunk,” Clint said once they were inside their room with the door closed.

“I think I am,” Philip answered. “I think I like it.” He unbuckled his belt and put his scabbards aside with his knife. “I find that I am very, very interested in getting my hands on my husband.” Untying his vest, he shrugged out of it. “You were the handsomest man in the room, after all, and I get to share your bed every night.” He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his boots. “What can I say? It’s like magic or something.” Patting the quilt next to him, he smiled the special sexy smile that drove Clint crazy. “You going to make me get up or are you coming over here?”

“Lost your inhibitions, have you?” Clint tossed his belt and vest onto the chair. “And here I thought we’d already had sex today.”

“I happen to know exactly how many times you can come in one day.” Philip stood and prowled over to where Clint was, determined to get his hands on bare skin. “Do I need to strip you down and keep you in bed to remind you?”

“Ummm,” Clint hummed his pleasure as Philip covered his hands and squeezed them tight. Little darts of electricity barreled up their arms; Philip’s control wasn’t the best thanks to the alcohol. “Would that I could, but we have to talk to Thor … although if he looks at you like that again I reserve the right to kick him out of the manor … get Darcy to make amulets from that possession rune, and organize the expedition to mountain. We never seem to catch a break. It’s just one thing after another. What I get for marrying a mage, I guess.”

Lips so close were nothing but a temptation and Philip didn’t have the willpower to resist, so he kissed Clint, slow and easy, before he answered. “I could say the same about marrying a Lord,” he replied, falling into those blue green eyes once again when Clint looked up at him. “We’ll make time. Soon.” Another kiss and Philip almost forgot, but not quite. “Wait.” He pulled back. “Darcy? She can’t make amulets. Why would you say that?”

Clint winced, skin between his eyes wrinkling. “Bard. Word mage? Talking men out of a geas spell?”

“You have never heard Darcy sing. She has no rhythm and can’t carry a tune in a bucket,” Philip protested, but then he remembered an old book he’d read about a particularly evil sorcerer who commanded men with words, giving stirring speeches that overrode their sense of right and wrong, whipped them into a frenzy. He’d almost killed an entire race of people before he was destroyed himself. “Ah, damn.”

Letting Clint go, Philip stepped away, rubbing his forehead as he tried to get his alcohol addled brain to think. The one thing Darcy did well was talk. She had an answer for everything, could come up with excuses at the drop of a hat, even persuade Fury to do what she wanted. Never anything evil or subversive; no Darcy was, at heart, sweet and loving. And she was friendly with everyone; if she had the patience for it, she’d make an amazing teacher because kids loved her and listened to her. Could it be that was a latent gift, just waiting for the right moment to blossom?

“Thing is, when you look at her, you see the little girl you watched grow up, remember her that way. When you tell a story about her, it’s always some scrape she got into and how she talked her way out of every corner she painted herself into. Like that time she switched the visiting chef’s sugar for salt because he wouldn’t let her snitch a pastry? Or the one where she had Peter searching the forest for that bird … what was it? A snipe?” Clint untucked his shirt and pulled it up over his head, tossing it in the laundry pile. “The closer we are, the harder it is to see the truth about people. I ignored all the warning signs about Barney because he was my brother, and he helped me hide from Father and sometimes took beatings for me. He was my hero, and I missed the way he collected debts, spent money he didn’t have and got angry so quickly.”

“Clint.” Philip caught his husband’s arm and reeled him back into a full on body hug. “You were what, nine? Ten? How could you know?”

“She’s your little sister, Phil. The girl you worry about and want to protect. It’s no surprise that you forget she’s nineteen, a woman in her own right, with a power the likes this world hasn’t seen in centuries. How could you know?”

Philip snorted and tilted his head back enough to get a good look at Clint’s eyes.  “You have a little of that malarkey factor yourself, you know. Songs and music and far too smart for my good.”

“And I’m irresistible. Don’t forget that.” Clint felt good, warm and close and stirring up Philip’s energy.

“How could I?” He let his hands roam because there was no reason not to give in to the desire. “You’re all I think about.” Then he was touching Clint everywhere, needing, wanting, control waning. Magic swirled around them as they bumped their way across the room; Philip’s back ended up against the bedpost, both their pants open and around their ankles so he could get his hand on Clint’s warm cock and stroke it to full hardness. “Want you. Want to touch you, taste you, have you inside of me. Can’t decide.”

Clint laughed, his mouth buried in soft skin behind Philip’s ear. “Anything you want.”

He wanted it all, far too fast to plan anything, the rough slide of his own cock against his knuckles, the weight of Clint along his palm, short breaths, and nips of skin. Fast kisses that ended in moans, Clint reached for the gel and then wrapped his slick hand around them both. Alternating his thrusts, Philip fell into the rhythm of Clint’s music, and there was no walls between them, no keeping the magic inside. It spiraled around them, but this time he funneled it back between them, breaking down all the barriers and letting them fall into each other. It burned through him, like his orgasm that was building, the tension in Clint, the pleasure that reverberated, echoed, sang, until he came, calling Clint’s name as he spilled over Clint’s hand.  Clint took a few moments longer; Philip could feel the edge approaching, twisted them around and sent them sprawling, inelegantly on the bed, so he could finish Clint off with his hand and leave them spread out across the quilt, breathing heavily.

“Are you going to fall asleep?” Clint asked when Philip didn’t move for a few minutes. He couldn’t; the world was still spinning.

“No.” Philip stayed where he was, resting half on Clint’s chest. He’d try to get up in a second.

“We need to clean up,” Clint tried again.

“Ummmmm,” Philip just murmured, nuzzling into Clint’s shoulder. “It’s fine.”

With a shove, Clint pushed him off and rolled up. “So you’re that kind of drunk, passing out on me after one short round,” he joked.

“Wait, wait. I forgot. I’m supposed to be mad at you.” Grumbling, he let Clint wipe up the mess and then tugged his night shirt on.

“Why?” Clint asked as he put on a soft pair of cotton pants to sleep in before he manhandled Philip the rest of the way into bed and joined him.

“Knowing my sister better than me,” Philip huffed.

“Tell you what.” Clint hooked a leg over Philip’s and crossed their ankles. “You can get mad at me in the morning. We’ll fight for a while and then we can have angry sex to make up.”

Philip rolled onto his side and put his arm around Clint’s waist. “Sounds like a plan.”

Then he was gone.

_“She is a firebrand; Mother will love her. Not as much as you, perhaps, but the Queen has a soft spot for sassy women. She’s one herself.”_

_Loki stood on the hilltop, wind ruffling his curly hair, dressed for traveling in brown leather._

_“You can’t have her either.” Philip knocked Loki’s hand away when he reached towards him._

_“Your king says differently. One runaway bride he can countenance. Two will make him seem weak.”  He smiled. “Such raw power in your family; I can nurture the spark, teach her so much.”_

_The electricity encircled Philip’s clenched fists, blue balls of energy. “My family is off-limits.”_

_“That’s the problem, you know.” Darcy wore fighting leathers, a chainmail shirt cinched tightly with her sword belt. “Your husband is smart. You should listen to him.”_

_“I know you’re an adult, Darce. I just don’t want to see you hurt.”_

_The battle raged around them, clashes of sword, cries of pain. The Berserker’s bellow rose above the rest._

_“Know your enemy and know yourself and you can fight a hundred battles,” she replied. “See? I do read sometimes.”_

_“I’ve underestimated you. I’m sorry,” Philip told her just as a wave of blue eyed warriors topped the hill._

_“Are you ready to go?” The deep rumbling voice came from behind him. Massive wings adjusted as the dragon turned rainbow hued eyes towards Philip. “Or are you still waiting?”_

_“Waiting?” He didn’t understand._

_“You were all born to this, little mage. Accept it and let’s get on with it.”_

He sat up in bed, the room still dark, head spinning, still a little drunk.

“Phil?” Clint mumbled, sitting up beside him, a warm hand on Philip’s shoulder.

“She a mage, isn’t she?” The implications were unspooling before him.

“Yes,” Clint eased him back down and held him tight. “She is.”

* * *

 

_“You are perfect; Mother loves sassy women. She’s one herself.”_

_Loki stood on the hilltop, wind ruffling his curly hair, dressed for traveling in brown leather._

_“In your dreams, Loki.” Darcy paused, thought about it, and laughed at her own joke. “Hey, maybe these are your dreams and not mine.”_

_“Such raw power in your family; I can teach you so much.” His blue eyes were filled with promises. He was flirting with her and it annoyed her. She slapped aside the hand Loki tried to place on her shoulder._

_“You’re not my type.” Darcy flipped her hair back, dismissing the Prince. He didn’t impress her._

_“I know you’re an adult, Darce. I just don’t want to see you hurt.” Philip was dressed in fighting leathers, a chainmail shirt cinched tightly with her sword belt._

_“Your husband is smart. You should listen to him.” She gripped her sword, sweeping an eye across the battlefield, listening as the Berserker’s bellow rose above the rest. “Do you really have a problem with Bruce?”_

_“I’ve known her from an ample nation, choose one, then, close the valves of her attention like stone,” Philip told her just as a wave of blue eyed warriors topped the hill._

_“Are you ready?” The woman had piercing eyes that cut right through to Darcy’s heart. “Or are you still waiting?”_

_“I’m always ready for adventure.” Darcy tried to place where she’d seen the woman before, but couldn’t pull the information out of her brain. “Do you have one in mind?”_

_“Oh, my dear, you are so much more than I ever imagined.” She laughed, lines crinkling around her eyes. “I can’t wait for the boys to meet you.”_

Early. It was super early in the morning. The room was just starting to lighten and there was a distinct chill in the air. She was cuddled down under the covers, just her nose sticking out. Jane was curled up beside her, tucked on her side, snoring lightly. The dream lingered, and Darcy shifted to her back to stare at the underside of the canopy; threadbare in spots, May would be pleased to see it was clear of dust and grime. Obviously, Philip’s chatelaine was very good at making do with what they had. Working a hand free, she pulled the hank of hair out of her eye and tried to will her body to go back to sleep to no avail. Lying here only made her remember the dream and what happened last night and wonder exactly how she got into bed wearing nothing but her underwear. Jane would have undressed her, but she distinctly remembered a pair of very masculine arms catching her as she blacked out.

Enough was enough. She got out of bed, tucking the covers back around Jane who slept very deeply. Stacked on a bench by the wardrobe was clean clothes; they’d literally arrived with nothing but the clothes on their backs and whatever Jane had in her bag, so Darcy was happy to see the donated pieces. On top was a set of underthings that included thinner woolen socks, short braies, and a cloth binder somewhat like the one Maria wore under her uniform, but made for bigger breasts. A taut strip of material ran underneath, long enough to circle and come back again, two loops formed armholes, and another length ran under her arms, across her back and secured in the same spot as the other. A series of hooks and clasps lined the end of the cloth strips; the first set was too loose, the last one too tight, so Darcy kept trying until the whole bra was neither constricting nor too freeing. It did make her chest slightly bigger, pressing up a lovely line of cleavage, but it felt amazing compared to the binders she had at home and, worst, those torture devices called corsets. She wiggled, bounced a little, and basically marveled at whoever invented this. That made her wonder where the clothes had come from; of the three thanes, the closest in size would be Jessica, but she was taller and slimmer than Darcy and none of them had her bust size. Maybe one of the women in Clint’s troop had donated this.

Next were a pair of pants, leather worn in the obvious places, smooth and supple from use. They were at least an inch too long, but she could turn them up and hide that with her boots; their owner must be muscular because Darcy’s calves and thighs didn’t fill them out completely. But they were too snug across her hips and her ass, waist gaping at the small of her back, nothing a belt wouldn’t solve. Anyone behind her would get a good look at her curves, but that didn’t bother her. No, she was too happy with the freedom the pants offered her. The shirt was grey, soft cotton blend that gave enough when she pulled it on to stretch over her breasts and was long enough to comfortably tuck in. She folded up the end of the sleeves before she picked up the leather vest, trimmed in the purple livery of Barton Manor, and slipped her arms through the sleeve holes. The belt cinched up the slightly too big middle, and she could leave the last button undone and it would cover down to the tops of her thighs. There was no way she could close it over her breasts, but the high scoop of the shirt’s neckline covered her well enough to leave two buttons more undone. And, at the bottom of the pile, was a small dagger to tuck into her belt for everyday use.

Stepping to the mirror, she looked herself over. Jane must have brushed her hair and put it up in a braid last night. Now, it was easy to take down and brush with the supplied toiletries that had appeared on the dresser. She tucked it back into a messy chignon with a couple of the pins provided. The woman who stared back at her looked older, stronger, much sexier than she ever had in any dress she’d had to wear. This style suited her; she was determined to keep it.

She didn’t think finding Philip would be difficult, but she never expected that he would still be abed. Annamarie pointed her towards breakfast and Darcy entered the hall to see Natasha Romanov sitting at a trestle table all alone, eating a porridge that smelled of apples and cinnamon. Darcy could either ignore the woman or invade her space and sit down, and Darcy never ran from a fight.

“Morning.” She put her bowl down across from Natasha’s and settled onto the bench. “I can’t believe I’m up before Phil. I’m not one hundred percent sure he actually sleeps.”

Natasha didn’t reply, just flicked a glance her way then went back to eating.

“Yeah, so, anyway, I’m glad to have this chance to talk to you. I have some questions that need answering.” She didn’t usually eat in the morning; she meant to just take a bite to have something to do during this awkward conversation, but the flavor burst on her tongue and she looked at her bowl again.

“First time, eh?” Natasha asked, a quirk on the corner of her lips as she watched Darcy scoop up another spoonful.

“Yes. That’s the problem. I need to know more about sex.” Darcy took the opening and blurted it out.

A cough was all the surprise Natasha showed. “And you think I’m the best person to ask?” she asked, incredulously.

“Well, sure. First off, I’d rather talk to another woman; I love Phil, but older brother, you know? Second, I really want the truth, not a lie to shut me up. Third, you didn’t make me leave the yard yesterday.” Darcy gave Natasha one of her friendliest smiles. “Ergo, we might actually have an adult conversation.”

Red hair spilled over a cheek as Natasha cocked her head and thought about it. She was a tough nut to crack, Darcy thought. “Alright, ask. But I assumed you already knew the basics considering that kiss I saw yesterday.”

“Oh, I know the mechanics, tab A, slot B. Philip very gentlemanly made sure that the books I needed to read were on the shelves I wasn’t supposed to mess with.” Darcy grimaced and tried to put her thoughts together in a way that would make sense. “You’ve been to court; I’ve seen you there, by the way, at least when you wanted people to see you. I’m nineteen-years-old, far past the age most of the other Lord’s daughters are married. Nick always said he was waiting for the best alliance when anyone would ask why I wasn’t already bundled off, but, honestly, he doesn’t think anyone is good enough for me … or able to handle me, I’m not entirely sure which. Anyway, I watched all the other girls, one-by-one, be paired off by their families. Elizabeth Pierce, bitch bane of my existence, had a big wedding complete with three thousand crystals hand sewn on her dress and enough hot house lilies to choke on when she married Lord Rumlow’s oldest son, Brock. Three months later, she comes to court, doesn’t speak a word, sits quietly with the matrons and never even blinks outside her husband’s presence.  Margaret Wu goes to the highest bidder …”

“Lord Stern.” Natasha’s voice was laced with distaste. “Put three wives in their graves, each younger than the last one.”

“Because he likes to hurt them; I saw Maggie’s back while she was changing.” Darcy remembered the red slashes and half-healed scars from untreated wounds. That was the last time Darcy saw the other girl; she’d not spoken and averted her eyes, clearly terrified. “If I use them as examples, the best I can hope for is a husband who will toss up my nightgown, do his business and roll off fast. Then I get pregnant, pop out an heir and a spare, and, if I’m really lucky, I can take a lover, discretely, some handsome young musician or thane. If I don’t hate sex by then, I might actually enjoy it.”

“Darcy, not all men are like that. Not even most men.” Natasha put her hand on Darcy’s to stop the absent tapping she hadn’t even noticed she was doing.

“I know. I mean, I see couples who are going at it like rabbits, but …” she shrugged and tried to think of a nice way to say what she wanted to. Ah, well, she didn’t think Natasha would care if she was blunt. “I don’t want to lay there. I want to participate, make him happy, and I want to have multiple orgasms. No one ever talks about how to do that.”

Natasha had a lovely laugh, Darcy didn’t mind admitting. All of Clint’s thanes were … not pretty, that wasn’t the right word for the strong, battle hardened women … gorgeously handsome. And saying that didn’t mean Darcy was attracted to any of them. She just spoke truth when she saw it.

“Oh, darling, we have so much to talk about. This may take a while.”

* * *

 

They used the mess room in the guard house instead of the main hall. Clint would be happy when the new study was finally completed and there was a better place to gather them all together for planning sessions. Philip was still carrying maps and books in, Bruce lugging another set of his own.  They were all arriving, one by one, even Annamarie leading a line of maids setting up an early brunch buffet fit for a prince. Her famous pasties, pork and chicken and beef, roasted potatoes with a cool dill dressing, plus beans and onions mixed with bacon. Boiled eggs, rashers of bacon, and fluffy biscuits. A separate table of deserts, mini tarts and cinnamon buns and bowls of long pulled taffy made a local.  Thor had been endearing himself to the people; up before dawn, he’d talked to the guard during their dawn changeover, taken Fandral down to the practice field and sparred with Carol and Jessica in the chilly fall air, showing off his prowess with his hammer, flirting with both the women outrageously right in front of the guard. A crowd had gathered, and Clint was glad to use that time to make some plans. Despite what had to be a nasty hangover, Philip was running just as fast as always, keeping the household running while seeing Clint’s plans to fruition.

“Friends!” Thor called as he saw the food laid out. “What is that delightful smell? I have worked up quite an appetite and now you provide a wonderful repast? I could come to truly like it here if you keep feeding me this way.”

“A local delicacy for you, Thor,” Clint said, sweeping the boisterous Prince away from Philip who winced at the loudness of the voice. He pointed to the pasties. “Annamarie makes them herself. You should try them all.”

“Indeed I will. Sif told me of the quality of your table; I had thought she exaggerated, but she did not.” Thor took the offered plate and began to help himself, taking at least one of everything before Clint led him to his place of honor on the long table. Others followed, sitting in clumps along the length of the benches, making their own groups, and soon easy conversations were flowing about which pasty was best and making a game of determining the ingredients in each one. Thor declared them the best he’d eaten and tried to woo Annamarie with money and promises of great fame if she came and made them for his family. Fandral declared they would make the best traveling food, the ease of carrying them and heating them over a fire perfect for long rides. Between the two of them, they polished off a good dozen before Fandral moved on to desert while Thor kept eating. Finally, when plates disappeared, tarts were dispatched, and the cider pouring slowed, Philip spread out the map on the table, weighing it down with wrapped pieces of taffy.

“I think the best plan of action is two pronged.” Clint began with a slight nod of his head to Thor to acknowledge the Prince’s claim to leadership. Thor simply pushed back and took another bun in his hand, smiled, and nodded back, ceding to Clint. “We send a small mobile team out to investigate the place Dooley named. Philip and I are protected by our bond, so I’ll go. Thor and Fandral have their amulets; one of them will accompany me.” Folding the two Asgardians into the plans made sense; keep your enemies closer, after all. Clint didn’t yet know enough to trust them.

“We’ve had this discussion before, Clint,” Carol warned. “You are not indispensable anymore. One of us goes with you. Danger or no.”

“Easily solved,” Thor offered. “My men all bear amulets. They can be transferred to whichever of your thanes you choose to go.”

“Thank you, your highness,” Clint said, despite already knowing who he was going to take anyway. “Then Natasha can come with us. Three should be enough for a quick reconnaissance only mission.” He saw nods of agreement; Nat was the best for this type of work. She’d be in and out before anyone knew she was there. “The second party will be dispatched to Bobby Singer’s to look for a spell to create more amulets.  Those who are good researching along with a few fighters for protection; we don’t want to draw undue attention. Thane Darcy?” He tilted his head and craned his neck to get a look down the long table where the two young women sat. They’d been quiet during the lunch, talking with Jessica and Natasha at their end, half hidden behind the men. “Your skill with words may be needed. And Lady Jane’s skill at research.” A movement in the corner of his eye, Clint saw Thor’s eyes settle on the two women and study them for the first time. “Clerk Banner will accompany them both to help the search and as protection.” Philip had started to argue against that, but Singer had been instrumental in helping them understand their own bond; he certainly could do the same for Bruce and Darcy. “Also, I want …”

“I should go,” Peter piped up, his interruption earning a harsh stare from Philip. Clint kind of liked the teen, probably because Peter reminded him a little of himself. “I’m good at my studies and if half of what I’ve heard about Singer’s collection is true there’s no way I want to miss seeing what he has on the transmission of skills through families. There’s a couple books that I’ve only heard their names whispered about; if I could find Crick and Watson’s Notebook or, heavens, more than a fragment of Darwin, that would go a long way to understanding how and why skills show up in generations. Plus, I can help protect the girls. I’m a pretty good fighter myself.”

Clint let Peter run out of things to say, leaving a beat of silence before he spoke again. “As I was saying, I want Peter to accompany them as well. Philip and I have agreed it would be the best use of his skills. Jess, you’re familiar with Singer, so you’re in the lead.” The teen ducked his head in embarrassment; Darcy openly smacked him on the arm.

“Is this the man who is rumored to have a copy of an original _Norton_?” Fandral asked. “I happen to be a bit of a musician myself and would love to chase down some lyrics. Perhaps I could lend aid?”

“Aye, I would see our enemy for myself. And have words with my brother if he is there,” Thor agreed, a dangerous glint in his eye when he mentioned Loki. “I will accompany you, Lord Barton. And my men are at your disposal to use if you wish.”

“It’s settled then. Philip?” That worked for Clint very well. Jessica, he knew, could more than handle the blonde haired warrior, and he would get a chance to understand Thor better. He turned the logistics over to his husband.

“There’s a good six hours of travel time before sundown. That should get you to Riley’s farmstead, Jess; they’ve sheltered us before and should be more than willing again especially if we send some cider their way. Annamarie will have food packets ready within the half hour. Pack light, everyone,” Philip’s eye went straight to Jane who blushed and ducked her head. This time, Clint followed the line of sight back to Thor who was once again staring intently at the brunette, obviously fascinated by the red that crept up her cheeks as she returned the look through lowered lashes. As Philip continued with the planning details, Clint tuned out and focused on the people around him since he and Phil had already talked about all of this. The dream Philip had last night where Loki had told him about plans to marry Darcy, whether true or not, had lit a fire under both of them to make sure that didn’t happen. For their plan to work, they needed the Asgardians; sitting here now, eyeing them closely, Clint’s first impressions were shifting. Thor, he’d thought, was the brash warrior type who ran into danger, temperamental and rash. That was still true, he suspected, but Thor was also a born leader yet willing to follow another’s lead. And the way he was looking at Jane made Clint believe there was a romantic heart under that very chiseled exterior. Fandral, on the other hand, had seemed to be a flirt, charming on the surface, but it occurred to Clint that the fighter had focused his attention on Jessica, Carol and Natasha last night,  today he’d been nothing but courteous to both Darcy and Jane, and he’d been downright gracious to Annamarie and the serving women, every inch a gentleman. None of that meant Clint knew how they’d behave in battle, but he was beginning to feel slightly more comfortable with including them.

As everyone had their marching orders from Philip, the room began to clear. Thor and Fandral left with nods, Jessica ushering them out, talking about the road ahead and preparations. Peter was excitedly talking to Jane as Natasha and Carol covered last minute details. Darcy, however, made a beeline for Philip and Clint, a determined gleam in her eye.

“I know exactly what you’re up to, Philip Coulson,” she said, leaning in so she could keep her words between them. “Safely tuck me and Jane and Peter away in some house filled with books. They’ll be as happy as ducks in water, but don’t think for a second that you’ve fooled me. This is about Loki transferring his proposal to me, isn’t it?  You know that slick haired bastard could be messing with us, right?”

“Better safe,” Philip said. That was the unofficial Fury motto. Pre-emptive preparation for any eventuality. “Besides, you need to learn to control your magic, and Singer knows more about that than anyone I know...”

“I’m no mage,” Darcy shook her head. “Me? I burn water, kill plants, and can’t keep a pet to save my life. Maybe I can persuade people or say things they need to hear, but that’s not magic and you know it.”

“Darcy. I’ve underestimated you too long; I’m not making that mistake again.” He reached for both her hand and Clint’s, making three halves of a circle. He nodded to Bruce who was hovering just outside the conversation’s range. “Maybe this will convince us both. Take Bruce’s hand.”

Confused, Darcy did was she was told, entwining her fingers with Bruce’s; Clint realized what Philip was after and winked in agreement, reaching for Bruce. When Clint’s fingers brushed the back of Bruce’s hand, the effect was instantaneous. A purple spark ran around the circle, music trailing behind it, the familiar strain of his own magic mixed with Philip’s. But then a green strand joined it, twisted together with the color of cranberries in fall, after harvesting and fermenting, a deep shade between purple and red. Emotions flooded through Clint, a swell that accompanied the song, sending sparks along the lines of his bonding marks. Words joined the tune, indistinct but there, a story building off the melody.

“Oh.” Darcy’s eyes were wide. “I can hear it, feel it.” She turned towards Bruce. “I know what you’re feeling.” Then Philip. “And you. You believe in me?”

“Yes.” Philip’s pride in his sister washed through Clint. Power grew around them. “In both of you.” Closing his eyes, Philip took the energy and spun until it funneled back along the colorful thread, into each one of them.

With the jolt, Darcy dropped her hands and rubbed her wrist. “That’s better than a cup of coffee or two. Wakes me right up.”

“Good. You’ll need it for the ride,” Clint joked, but he saw Bruce’s somber look; the clerk still hadn’t accepted the idea of being bonded.

“Keep her safe for me,” Philip said to Bruce, clapping him on the back. “She’s going to test your patience in more ways than one.”

“Hey! I’m right here,” Darcy protested.

“Yes. Yes you are. Don’t give him grief,” Philip said to her. She sputtered but he continued. “And keep an eye on him for me. I know how good you are at making people eat and sleep when they need to.”

She smiled at that; Bruce grimaced. “Oh, yes. I can do that.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of fun nods during Darcy's talk with Natasha to Cap 2:The Winter Soldier. I stole a lot of names from those characters for the discussion about court life. 
> 
> Skalds were the Norse version of bards and both names mentioned by Thor and Fandral are famous singers and poets from Norse mythology. The Prose Edda is considered one of the greatest epics of Old Norse; J. R. R. Tolkien was influenced by it while writing The Lord of the Rings.
> 
> Bran the Blessed is a legendary Irish king -- I've conflated him with King Arthur and his knights here by using the Battle of Badon Hill. Taliesin is a famous bard from mythology as well. 
> 
> In Philip's dream, Darcy is quoting from Sun Tzu's The Art of War.
> 
> In return, Philip quotes Emily Dickinson's "The Soul Selects her Society" in Darcy's dream. That one will show up in a later chapter again.


	7. Do You Want to Build a Snowman?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The storm finally arrives and Darcy is right in the midst of it, struggling to keep both of them alive. Lots of magic in this chapter and some singing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I started footnoting things just to help me remember what I used where. I've left them in but they all come out as number 1 in the end notes. Sorry for that. If they annoy you, let me know. I have a bad habit of writing up a storm myself and then forgetting which poems I put where. :)

“This is so exciting!” Jane murmured, shifting her pack to the steps. The leather satchel thumped as she sat it down alongside the first one. “Peter heard that there’s a whole room of science books; what if there’s something by Greene[1] or Rosen[2]? Can you imagine?”

Books peeked out of the satchel, the top barely latching on the last buckle. “Pack light? We’ve been here a day. Where did you find new books?”

“Bruce had a copy of _The Consolation of Philosophy **[3]**_ , can you believe it? I’ve been using the one in our library but it’s so fragile. This one I can carry around with me.” Like always, Jane was beaming as she talked about her work. Give her a popular romance, and she’d be bored beyond belief. Give her a series of numbers and letters in an advanced equation, and she was happy for months figuring it out.

“We better get you a sturdy pony, then,” Darcy joked. She had only a light pack of her own, one clean set of clothes, a few personal necessities, and some thick socks. Cold feet were the worst. The heavy cloak was draped across the top of the bag to throw on the back of her horse. The day had started out mild and sunny, but winter was closing in and weather could be volatile in the North, or so Darcy had heard.

“Ladies, may I be of service?” Prince Thor stood just behind them. Darcy jumped; she hadn’t heard him coming. For such a big man, he was moved with grace and ease. Didn’t hurt that he was very, very handsome. Come to think of it, almost all the men around here were good looking. How did that happen?

“Whoa, where did you come from?” She said without thinking. “Scare a girl, why don’t you?”

“My apologies, Thane Darcy,” he replied, but his eyes were focused beyond her on Jane. So that’s the way the wind was blowing, was it? Matchmaker Darcy immediately began making plans. “Lady Jane. I am sorry if I surprised you,” Thor continued.

“Oh, no, we, um, were just caught up in our conversation, you majesty,” Jane offered in way of explanation. She tilted her head, a stray strand of hair draping along her cheek, and Darcy bit her lip to keep from smiling. That was Jane’s flirting glance, face slightly down so her eyes were looking up at the tall Prince, highlighting the difference in their heights. “And thank you for offering, but we can manage, I’m sure.”

“Those books look heavy.” Thor’s eyes softened and he made no attempt to hide his perusal of Jane’s face. “You are a scholar? What do you study?”

That was as good an opening as Darcy had heard in a long while. Usually men told Jane how pretty and petit she was, implying she was helpless because of her size and gender. But Thor went straight for Jane’s first love, an impressive reading of how to flatter her. Darcy might not have to do anything at all to flame this little spark to life.

“Astronomy.” Jane’s whole demeanor changed at the question. Talking about her theories took away any self-doubt she might have. “Are you familiar with the music of the spheres? How everything is related in the universe?”

“Indeed. Our Volvas often listen to the song to determine the future.” Thor tossed his cloak over a shoulder, baring one of his very muscular arms. “Legend has it that our ancestors came from across a bridge between Midgard and the stars.”

“Oh, I’ve never heard that!” Jane took a step closer to the Prince, entranced by the offer of new information. “There’s a very old theory about tunnels through the black canopy of space, but my professors are very dismissive.”

“You should visit Asgard. Our library is filled with tomes from long before the Midlands were naught but random settlements. You could spend years studying books no one has looked at in generations.”

The sound of hooves clattered on the rough earth; a groomsman led their palfreys over and Darcy slung her pack behind the saddle, clipping her cloak on top of it. Thor picked up Jane’s satchel with no effort, tying it down as Jane took care of her other pack and coat. “I would love that!” Jane beamed, forgetting her formal manners in her excitement. “I’m sure Philip would love to escort us. He is fascinated by Asgardian history and Peter would get lost in the science books.”

“Might not be a great idea, considering Phil almost married Loki. I mean, you know, might-have-been meets the non-in-laws? Awkward,” Darcy noted, mouth moving without benefit of her brain. She snapped it shut at Jane’s quelling look. She winced then shot a quick glance at Thor to see how bad the damage was.

“You might be correct about the King, but the Queen would most definitely enjoy a visit. I’m afraid my brother did not consult either of them before he tendered the proposal.” Thor offered Jane a hand up; when she went to accept, he spanned her waist with his palms and lifted her effortlessly. Darcy swung up on her own since the others were too lost in each other’s starry-eyed gaze to notice. Was that what everyone else saw when she looked at Bruce? Turning her head, she saw him speaking to Clint on the stairs, his own pack over his shoulder. As soon as her eyes fell on him, he lifted his head and saw her. Flicking her eyes towards Jane and Thor, Darcy huffed a breath upward, blowing a hair off her face and giving an exaggerated sigh. Bruce smiled before he went back to his conversation.

“It is settled then!” Thor was saying when she tuned back in. “As soon as we are victorious against our enemy, you shall come to Asgard. We shall have a grand feast and you can spend days reading anything you wish.”

Fandral called Thor’s name; he lingered a moment longer, his hand on Jane’s saddle, then made his goodbyes and walked away. Jane followed him with her eyes, her horse fidgeting as she twisted around. “Not. A. Word,” she said before Darcy even got her mouth half open. “I have been very, very nice about you mooning over Bruce. Remember, I know all kinds of secrets.”

“Scary, Jane. You are super scary when you get like this.” Darcy tested the reins and patted her horse’s neck. “Truce then. I’m sure we’ll get enough grief from …”

“Was that Prince Thor?” Peter rode up next to them. “Jane and Thor? Wow. Princess Jane. I like that. It has a nice ring to it.”

Jane reached out and smacked Peter on the shoulder. “Two words, Peter Parker. Don’t make me say them.” She twitched the fabric of her riding skirt, split up the middle so she didn’t have to sit side saddle.

“Oh, please, let me!” Darcy punched Peter on the other shoulder. Double teaming him was fun. “Are the first letters G and S?”

“Hey!” Peter protested. “I won’t say anything else. I promise. You are no fun, you know that?”

“Fun is not what this trip is about, Peter,” Philip warned. He was standing at the head of the stairs close to Jane. “Best remember to keep your eye out for danger.”

“And this is where you remind us not to screw up and be good little boys and girls.” Sometimes Peter whined. He’d never admit it, but Darcy knew it was true. Whining was a very useful tool on occasion, if used rarely and only with a real grievance, but Peter hadn’t learned that yet.

“No.” Philip took a deep breath. “I think it’s time I retired from the role of your jailor. You’re adults now; time for us to learn to be family in a different way. Be smart. Be careful. Use your skills and talents to help. Come back safe and sound so we can get to know each other as equals. Let’s start with that.”

Peter’s mouth dropped open, but Darcy’s smile widened. “Phil. Nice to meet you. I’m Darcy.” She reached out a hand and Philip shook it. “Looks like happily married suits you.”

His eyes strayed to Clint and back. “Yes, I think I’ve learned a few things from my husband. First and foremost, to admit how I feel. We don’t stand on court decorum here.” He reached up and hugged first Darcy and then Jane. “I love you both so don’t get yourself hurt out there.” Peter hesitated, but he leaned down and let Philip close his arms around him. “Don’t do anything stupid. You’re not immortal even in you are sixteen.”

“Ah, now that’s the Phil I know and love,” Peter quipped back, but he hung on an extra second to squeeze hard.

“One more thing. Listen to Jessica; if she says go left, go left. Don’t ask questions or hesitate.” Philip got serious. “Especially if Peter agrees, understand? Jess has a lot of experience.”

Darcy nodded. So one of Jessica’s gifts was intuition as well. That could be handy on a trip like this. “Go say goodbye to your husband,” she nudged Philip with her knee. “We’ll be fine.”

“See that you are.” With one last smile, Philip walked over to where Clint was preparing to mount his own steed; as Darcy watched, he slipped his arms around Clint’s waist and then the two of them were kissing, in broad daylight, right in front of the whole manor.

“Ew. Really?” Peter grimaced and turned away.

“I think it’s sweet,” Jane replied.

The thrum of power reverberated in her belly, pooling between her legs and between her shoulder blades where Bruce’s eyes were resting. She didn’t make eye contact with Bruce, not sure what would happen when they did, if the power would flare and everyone notice. Instead she filed the words that whispered in her ear away for future reference. _For God’s sake, shut up and let me love. **[4]**_

Jessica said they were leaving in five minutes and they rode out exactly five minutes later. Taking the lead, she set a quick pace; they were all good riders and were comfortable in the saddle. Fandral joined her in the front; Bruce slipped into the anchor position and Darcy fell back to ride alongside him, leaving Peter and Jane in the middle.

“So, maybe we should, you know, actually get to know each other.” Darcy saw the edges of Bruce’s lips turn up. “Hello. I’m Darcy Lewis. I like riding and, don’t tell my brother, reading books with old tales. Poetry, too, especially when put to music. I can’t sew three straight stitches in a row, but I can talk my way out of just about anything. I’m good at giving orders but nobody listens to me, so that’s a useless talent. I have little patience, am likely to break into song at any moment even though I can’t sing, and actually like being at court sometimes because what’s happening there is better than any story a writer could make up. Oh, and my favorite food is anything with sweet dough, preferably fried.” That earned her a laugh from Bruce and glance back from Jane and Peter. “Your turn.”

“Let me see,” he pretended to think about his answer. “I like spicy food, I make notations in the margins of my books, and I studied the physical nature of elements at university. Music is good, but I prefer a nice tragedy performed by quality players. I lived alone in the woods, literally, for the past six years. Oh, and I have an angry monster that lives inside of me and comes out to wreak havoc when I get angry or feel threatened.”

“Hulk. Yes, we’ve met.” Darcy nodded sagely, keeping her voice light. “Big guy, likes to smash golems, if I remember.”

“Hulk?” Bruce asked, turning serious. “Why Hulk?”

“Because he’s a big handsome hulk of a man.” She shrugged as if it was a little point when, in fact, she knew this was very important. “And Not Bruce just didn’t sound right.”

This time, Bruce snorted before he laughed, louder than before. “Gods, Darcy, you have an answer for everything, don’t you. Not Bruce.”

“Indeed I do. Now if everyone would just admit that I know everything, we’d be fine.” She bumped his elbow as the trail narrowed and their horses drew closer. “Even Hulk admitted I was right.”

“You really shouldn’t trust him not to hurt you,” Bruce said, sobering, eyes laced with concern.

“Pardon my bluntness, but you really don’t know him,” Darcy answered. She saw the storm clouds form on Bruce’s brow, so she rushed onward. “He’s intelligent and understood exactly what I was saying. Yes, he reacts out of emotion, anger being one of them, but so do we all at different times.”

“You don’t rip people’s arms off when you get mad,” Bruce countered, face flushing a little; Darcy could feel how uncomfortable Bruce was becoming with the topic.

“Well, Peter says that I often ‘rip him a new one’ when I’m yelling at him, does that count?” She tried to lighten the mood. “Anyway, music, huh? What’s your favorite type of song? I like the kind that gets stuck in your head and you can’t get it out for days. Simple lyrics and catchy tunes. Jane will sing that stupid hey nonny nonny[5] song just to get even with me if I win an argument.”

He took a few beats to reply, but he went with the topic change. “I like long epic stories. “The Pirate and the Archer” is one of Philip’s favorites. And the one about the highway man and the innkeeper’s daughter. [6] Oh, anything with a dragon.”

“”The Fire Dragon Singer”? The girl with the nine lizards who wants to be a harper.[7] That’s a great one.” She hummed a few notes. “The part about getting lost in the storm with the Master Harper is wicked difficult to play, according to our music teacher. Of course, I never learned more than C and an F chording before he declared me hopeless. None of the four of us were very good; Maria’s got a nice voice, but, between you and me, Jane gets lost in the math, Peter forgets the melody, and Philip always gets distracted remembering connections to other things he’s read and heard. And then there’s me, the worst of the lot. Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate it, though.”

“ _Come to me, little dragon, stay with me. The world outside is wet and cold, the cave inside is warm and dry, the night is ‘ere just hours old, there’s days to go before you fly. Come to me, little dragon, stay with me_.”[8] Bruce’s voice was deep and low; faint around the edges, the Berserker could be heard, and the snippet of the song stirred her.

“Ah, I know that one!” Fandral called from the front of the line. “If you help with the words, I think we can manage.” He pulled a lute out of his pack and began to tune it. “Singing helps pass the time on the road, don’t you agree.”

Fandral had excellent fingers, the opening notes clear as he ran the first few measures. His voice was a tenor and Bruce’s bass worked as a compliment, and they all enjoyed that story then another and a third one before Jane insisted on the “Hey Nonny Nonny” song which she had to teach Fandral over Darcy’s protestations. Jessica’s alto joined in on a fighting song about caissons and one about a lost troop of fighters who couldn’t find the battle, but knew where all the taverns were. Crossing through the open countryside just this side of the foothills with clear lines of sight meant a long warning if anyone approached them, so they felt free to laugh and joke and sing to pass the time.

Somewhere in the fourth hour as they skirted along the edge of a corpse of trees, Darcy felt the change in air pressure, the stiffening of her neck and an ache behind her eyes. Dark clouds appeared on the horizon, scuttling over the mountains and down the hills towards them, pushed by winds which picked up speed and whipped through the branches until the trees swayed like drunken dancers.  A heavy weight fell on Darcy’s chest, a band that pressed down until she had to consciously breath deep to fill her lungs. The late day sun disappeared behind the blackening roil of clouds. Bruce made a sound deep in his throat, an honest-to-goodness growl, and Darcy seconded that emotion.

“That looks ominous,” Fandral said, an eye to the north and the wash of white that covered the horizon. He packed away his lute and took out his heavy coat. “Do you often get storms from over the mountains?”

“It’s rare,” Bruce replied, drawing in tighter to Darcy, just as Jessica and Fandral closed the distance between front and back of the party. “Usually storms break up when they hit the mountains. They come sweeping from the East or the West, and sometimes rain comes up from the South, but with those peaks it takes a very high storm to make it over.”

The sound filled her ears, low and indistinct at first, but growing in malice and clarity as the rode. _Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks!_ She tried to tune it out, but the words grew darker, deeper. _You cataracts and hurricanes, spout until you have drenched the steeps! **[9]**_

“Can you hear that?” she turned to ask Bruce; his head was down, hand pinching his nose, breathing in short gasps. Without thinking she reached over and put a hand on his. The contact grounded her and the pressure lightened, sound retreating. Turning his hand over, Bruce wound their fingers together; veins of green crept up his neck, his eyes beginning to change.

“Perhaps we should find shelter,” Fandral suggested. “That looks like snow coming; I can feel the temperature dropping.”

Peter reined his horse to a stop and stood in the stirrups, scanning the horizon. “We need to …”

“Run!” Jessica shouted, spurring her mount and jumping ahead. “Try to stay together. They’re behind us …”

“And on the sides,” Peter agreed. “Jane, hold on.”

They were all trained to ride fast; Nick made them learn how to stop a bolting horse and how and when to give their horse its head to run away. Crouching low over the neck, Darcy lifted her butt out of the saddle, squeezed her knees and balanced with her hands on the reins, let her palfrey take the nudge and follow the others into a full out gallop. They’d gone only a few lengths before the first howls sounded behind them. Hooves pounded in a chaotic cadence that couldn’t mask the sounds of the approaching pursuit. Darcy looked back and saw sleek forms, low to the ground, black and grey fur disappearing as they darted along the trail. They were giant wolves with long limbs, sharp claws, and glowing blue eyes.

Her horse shied, rearing up as a warg darted out from behind some brush, attacking from her left. Clinging to his neck, she held on for dear life, kicking with her boots at flashes of teeth and claws. Spooked, her horse bolted, jumping a good foot and racing off into the trees to the north, weaving in and out between the boles like a frightened rabbit. The edge of the leather bridle bit into her palms, but she kept her grip, determined to stay low and avoid the branches that were slapping at her face. No time to think of anything but not falling, she lost sight of the others almost immediately as more wargs joined the first, playing a vicious game of tag with her horse’s legs and her own feet. The poor animal was working himself into a frenzy, his eyes wide and wild, skin lathering up with sweat, slicking the bridle and reins and making it hard to hold.  Her hair tore loose, flying behind her, tangling in branches and being yanked as they kept running. She couldn’t risk letting go, so it fell across her face, obscuring her peripheral vision as they kept up their headlong plunge.

One of the wargs broke the skin on her horse’s flank and he screamed in pain, bucking hard with his back hooves before continuing. Pulling her legs in tight, Darcy felt the whip of the wind, knew a moment of pure terror as the words came unbidden to her mind: _we spur to a land of no name, outracing the winds of the storm, leaping to the infinite dark like sparks from the anvil_.[10] A strange calm settled over her, the words pushing against her lips to get out, heavy with power as her horse race up the incline of the hill.

With an abrupt jerk and upward motion, the horse leaped over the ravine that Darcy hadn’t seen coming, stretching his body to reach the other side. A warg jumped after them, catching the thick leather of Darcy’s boot, its weight throwing her off-balance. Arms flailed as she kicked it away, but it was too late; she was sliding off, fingers scrabbling to grab the thin leather she’d dropped or catch on the saddle. Then she was crashing through low scrubs and a thick rhododendron, limbs knocking the breath from her lungs before the final thump of hitting the ground made her black out for a second.

“Get up, get up, get up,” she chanted as she drew her aching legs under her and tried to stand. Loud snuffling, the sounds of paws were circling and she had nothing but her small knife. Wolves. She searched her brain for a bit of useful information about what to do; all she could remember was that a pack had an alpha leader, and how funny she’d thought the term omega was. No, wait; there was the one story about the girl in the mountains, searching for her sister. She’d lit their wagon on fire to drive the wolves away. So all Darcy needed was fire. Wood she had plenty of; there were broken branches about as thick as her wrist, but how was she to light it?

The first warg, massive body with a black spot of fur over half of its face, came to a stop in front of her, sitting on its haunches and looking at her with far-too –intelligent eyes. It cocked its head and sniffed before baring its teeth at her with a deadly growl. More joined him, circling around her, sitting and waiting.

“Oh, hey!” She talked when she was terrified and this qualified in the category of things that scared her. “Nice doggies? I don’t have a treat for you, but there were some really nice meat pie pasty things in my horse’s pack.” More howls, moving away from her. “Oh, some of your pack is taking care of that, huh? Right. So, hey, how’s it going? What brings you down from the mountain? Don’t you miss your home? I won’t stop you if you want to head back. Just trot off like good little wolves and go to your cave or whatever.”

They had her surrounded, and she wasn’t going to run very fast anyway, not with the slice on her arm that was sluggishly bleeding or her ankle which was twinging as she shifted her weight.  And then it began to snow, big fat flakes that immediately clung to the branches and covered the ground, a thin rain of white that settled in her messy hair and turned back to water, drops rolling down her neck.

“Great, that’s wonderful. What’s next, huh?” She complained. A crack of thunder made her jump and a few of the wargs whine. “Thunder snow? Really? That’s just not normal ....”

Magic. This was a storm spawned by a sorcerer. She could sense it now that she was still, despite the pounding of her heart and the throbbing of her body. Oppressive, weighing her down, the earlier words returning to her. Wargs and weather, someone was trying to stop them from getting to their destination.

“And you are just sitting there. Waiting. That is creepy.” She wiped water from her eyes, the snow coming down more quickly now. “Okay, okay. I’m a mage right? Ha. Supposedly. So if a mage wants fire, I can just make it. How hard can it be? Let’s see, magical words. Bibbity bobbity boo? Open sesame? Fiat lux? Burn, baby, burn?”

The warg alpha moved, taking two steps towards her, the others following, tightening the circle.

“Give me a minute here. I’ll get it. What’s worked before? Poetry or a song? I can’t sing worth a damn, but …” She tried to think of any poem she’d heard about fire, but a tale about a woman burned at the stake as a martyr didn’t seem the right choice. “And right about now I wish I had a bit of a berserker in me. Or a sword. I’d take a sword.” The thought of the Berserker reminded her of her first impression of him and the lyrics of the song spilled out. “ _Tiger, Tiger, burning bright as a fire in the night. What mortal hand could frame your fearful symmetry_?”[11]

Too many things happened all at once. The end of the branch she’d picked up burst into a bright ball of flame, the wargs yipped and jumped back, and a big body came crashing down the steep side of the ravine. Hulk, and yes Darcy was going to call him that, was covered in a dozen scratches, his leather vest ripped and torn in places, green mottled skin lined with red welts. Bellowing his rage loudly, he slid to a stop behind her, scattering the wolves with a sweep of his fist. The pack split away, a few slinking off, but most turning their attack to the biggest threat. Three of them leaped, trying to latch their teeth on him and take him down. Two more came at his back, aiming to hamstring him, but he spun too fast, grabbing one wolf by the hind legs and using it to knock the others away. One got its mouth around the Berserker’s forearm, only to be slung off, crashing into the trunk of the nearest tree and yipping in pain.

The alpha, however, didn’t join the others; he stayed focused on Darcy, stalking forward. She stepped back and waved the branch at the snarling face. “Shoo! Go away!” she tried to sound confident, but her teeth were chattering from the chill of her now wet hair and shirt that clung to her arms. Maybe a bit of fear as well. The warg feinted left then darted for her legs on the right. “Stop it!” The word ripped from her throat and slammed into the animal, knocking it backwards on its haunches.  Angry and hurt, the alpha lunged again; Darcy barely got out of the way and the warg spun on just one foot and tried one more time again. She lost him for a second, a blur of white in the increasingly heavier snowfall and she was on her back, the weight of the wolf on her chest, the blazing branch sailing from her hand. Rancid breath washed over her face as sharp teeth filled her vision. “Um, hi?”

Then he was gone with a terrible cracking and grinding sound, and the Berserker had her by the waist, lifting her up. At her wince, he sat her down gently. “You’re hurt,” he rumbled. Such strength in those arms, yet he was so tender as he brushed a smudge of dirt from her cheek.

“Banged up from the fall,” she assured him. “When my horse jumped and I wasn’t ready for it.”

He raised his head and sniffed the air. “We have to go; more is coming. Not just wolves, something else.”

“Which direction?  I don’t even know where we are.” She couldn’t see beyond the tree line at the top of the incline, and the weather was making visibility worse.

“Up.” He offered his hand and Darcy let him pull her with him as he took the slope in just four big steps. “We go the opposite of where the wargs are.”

“Well, of course. But we need to find the others.” Even as she argued, she was following his back into the forest, half-running to keep up, each step making her ankle throb.

“We need shelter. This storm is growing.”  Stopping, he looked back at her as if he could sense her discomfort. “Clint has a lodge somewhere around here. Can you find it?”

“How would I know where …” She paused, reading the crook of his eyebrow and getting his message. “Magic. Um, maybe?”

Howls, closing in. “Try,” Hulk said, reaching out a hand. “We need to run.”

When she slid her palm inside his, he swung her up on his back; she wrapped her arms around his neck and tightened her knees into his side, his arms supporting her legs. Then they were moving fast, dodging branches in his long strides as if she weighed nothing. The wind began to sting her cheeks as ice pellets joined the snow, long slashes of sleet starting to fall between the dark grey skies and the whitening ground. She tucked her nose into the warm spot at the back of his neck where his hair just curled over the collar of his shirt, using him as shelter for her face.  Eyelashes grew heavy, slowly covered with frost, tangled hair turning white in patches, the parts of her body not touching him cooling rapidly. He, however was burning hot like a furnace, her foggy breath turning to liquid drops that rolled down his back beneath the ripped leather and wet linen of his shirt.

They had to get out of this storm to a safe place, preferably where they could barricade themselves in and keep their pursuers out. Problem was, Darcy had absolutely no directional sense. She had gotten lost in Tarian Castle and still wasn’t entirely sure of the layout of some parts of it. Aside from Hulk telling her they were heading north, she couldn’t determine if where they were going, much less find a hunting lodge in this storm that was bordering on a blizzard now. And using magic, well, sure, she’d done a few things but those were aberrations. She had no idea why sometimes people did what she said and why most of the time they ignored her.

Words were important. If anything, today had taught her that. The fragments she was hearing and speaking were meaningful, albeit for what reason or how she had no clue. Most were random snippets from poems and other things she’d read. There might be a connection but she was too frazzled and scared and cold right now to make any sense of it. Instead, she closed her eyes, burrowed tighter against the warm expanse of his back and just let her mind wander, hoping an answer would appear. The words floated into her mind as she thought about it.

_Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubt I’ll ever come back. **[12]**_

Her vision tunneled ahead, down an incline, across a flowing stream, water running rapidly downhill then along the bank to a widened path that led up again. Not far, yet a long way to go in the snow with wargs nipping on their heels. Assuming she wasn’t just hallucinating and dreaming of a small lodge built into the side of a hill.

Hulk skidded to a halt, waking her from her vision, and Darcy looked up to see a figure blocking the way. A long cape, dark green with yellow trim, obscured his face; there were flashes of armor as his gauntleted hand emerged to pull the hood down, water dripping from the edge.

“Running is futile. Why persist? Come with me and you can be warm and dry.” An accented male voice, calm with just an edge of confusion as if he truly didn’t understand.

“Get out of my way,” Hulk warned and Darcy felt muscles tense, preparing to strike. With a wiggle, she was free and slipping down to the ground, stepping around until she could face the new threat.

“Who are you?” she demanded. _I’m Nobody_[13], she thought. I’m small, I’m scared, don’t worry about me.

“A messenger. Do as he wants and your friends will be saved, Darcy Lewis.” The hooded face turned her way but she could see nothing but shadows in the depths.

“Well, now, that would be dreary. Just give up and go along? Sorry, but I’m not made that way.” She went with false bravado, brazening it out. _How dreary – to be – Somebody! … Then there’s a pair of us._

“As I am made the same as well. And I have my orders.” He extended his hand and a blast of red light engulfed Hulk, expanding around him. Muscles clenched and he threw his head back, the magic ripping a scream from his throat that changed as he shrank, Bruce’s features morphing back, face contorted with pain, until he dropped to the ground on his knees, shaking. “Come with me and I will not kill him.”

Bruce lifted his head and she saw blood trickling from the corner of his mouth and eye, a rivulet running down his neck. Clouded with agony, his eyes still found hers and he shook his head, unable to speak but his message was clear. Don’t do it.

“Hell, no.” There wasn’t really a choice; first lesson Philip had taught her was not to forget that your opponent isn’t like you and doesn’t have to play by the same rules. Just because Darcy would keep her promise, didn’t mean this guy would. “You let him go or I’ll …” she trailed off, not really knowing if there was anything to threaten him with.

He was in front of her in a flash, his gauntleted hand closing around her throat and lifting her effortlessly off the ground. Bruce struggled, still trapped inside the magical sphere, banging his hands against the edges only to come away bloody and bruised.

“I’m sorry, but you have no choice. You will come as my master has ordered.”

This close she could see glints of metal inside the hood; he was wearing some sort of faceplate, a helm that matched the ornate and stylized armor she could see covering his hand and forearm, delicate designs with tiny lines of green and yellow.

“Why?” She whispered. “Why does he want me?”

“You’re a danger; you think too much and speak when it’s not your turn. Just like her.”

Red glowed as magic spread up his arm towards her; Bruce threw himself against the wall that separated them and crashed into a heap on the ground. Seeing him in a crumpled pile, more than anything else, made anger wash over her, some hers, some Bruce’s. The words flew out of her mouth, harsh and sharp, knives aimed right at the armored man.

“ _A thinking woman sleeps with monsters. The hand that grips her, she becomes_.”[14]

The wave rippled out, her body the epicenter; her assailant jerked his hand, flinging Bruce away as he pulled the energy back he’d used to trap Bruce. From the corner of her eye, she saw Bruce tumble into the creek, but she kept her focus on the hooded figure, watched as he stepped back and circled his power in on himself. Emotions flowed from the marks on her body, and she felt the icy cold of the water, the exhaustion that weighed Bruce down, and the worry for her. It strengthened her, made her stronger.

“And now I have the measure of your power,” he said.

“ _The words are purposes. The words are maps_.”[15]  They struck him, one syllable at a time, and he flinched. “Tell your master that.”

“I will.”

Then he was gone in a cloud of sparkling lights, and the skies went white, the promised blizzard arriving with a shriek of winds.  She staggered towards the creek, wading into the rushing water that soaked through her boots in seconds.  Looping her hands under Bruce’s arms, she helped him up and out onto the bank.

“Bruce? Are you with me?” She bent over him and snow piled up on her shoulders.

A violent fit of shivers made his teeth rattle as he answered. “Drained.”

“Up the hill a bit.” She coaxed him to his feet, resting his arm across her shoulders. “We can make it.”

As if on cue, the howls started, even more eerie coming from the blowing white that obscured her line of sight. She could make out the path only because of the way the pile of snow curved into the hard packed earth cleared of obstacles. Weaving on his feet, Bruce sagged against her and she tried to get them both moving; they had to get out of this storm before they turned to ice statues where they stood.

“Darcy …” He tried to push her away, but she stubbornly held on.

“Don’t even start that self-sacrificing, oh so noble line with me, Bruce Banner.” They were moving, one step at a time which was better than standing still. “We get to the lodge, build a big fire, and wait this out in cozy comfort. Easy as that.”

His response was a muffled laugh. “Running water … slow them down … hard to cross,” he explained.  “They’ll find a way … eventually.”

“Oh, right. Good idea. We can stay by the creek for a bit before we turn up. Assuming I can find the trail in this white out.” That was an increasingly difficult task; she shivered, wishing for the warm cloak that had been on her saddle.  Her pants and boots were soaked and her toes began to ache from the cold; the bitter wind raised a pattern of goosebumps along Bruce’s uncovered skin beneath Darcy’s quickly numbing fingers. “I think I saw how to get there, but, hey, I’m not entirely sure how this magic thing works so who knows?”

Bruce could barely pick up his feet, but Darcy concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, a task that got harder as she started to lose feeling in her fingers and toes. Too much exposed, not enough layers to keep warm, she could only keep going, talking the whole while as much to hear her own voice as to wake Bruce up as he started to slip under. Anything and everything she could think of, she just let tumble off her tongue, past her chattering teeth and freezing nose. Favorite foods and songs and Jane’s habit of forgetting names and Philip’s addiction to May’s sweet fried dough and her own dislike of frippery. Twice they fell, once when Bruce’s knees gave out and then when Darcy’s foot hit some loose rocks as they toiled up the incline. The last time, sprawled in the snow, Darcy thought about how easy it would be to lay there and drown in the white stuff, but that would mean the enemy would win and it was her own brand of sheer cursedness to plow ahead just to spite the people who expected her to fail. Getting Bruce up and going again took more than cajoling; Darcy used her strongest weapons – begging and some very unladylike phrases – but they finally arrived at the top of the path in a clearing. Before them was a lodge, dark, cold, built into the mountain side but it had walls and a roof and Darcy wasn’t going to complain. The sounds of their pursuit had been growing louder for some time; even if she had to break in, she was getting Bruce to a place where he could rest and recuperate.

Leaning him against the logs stacked and chinked together to make a wall, Darcy closed her eyes for two seconds, said a quick prayer to whatever gods might be listening, and reached for the door knob. “Please be open, please be open,” she chanted. It turned easily in her hand and she would have crowed in delight had her throat not been raw from the icy air she’d been breathing. Tugging Bruce inside, she shut and barred the door behind them. Just being out of the wind made a huge difference; the room was still very cold, but she blinked, cleared her eyes and could actually start to see in the gloom as she adjusted to the ambient light filtering through the windows.

Bruce slumped down against the outer wall, the logs covered inside with an adobe plaster. “Protection,” he murmured. “Need to protect …”

The wind shook the whole of the structure, exploding down the flue and blowing the dampers open. Snow whipped through the room and a growl came from just outside the door. A second blast of gale force followed the first, and Darcy could swear she hear the sounds of tearing wood from the roof.

“I don’t know how. The words … I have no idea what to say,” she protested. It wasn’t like there was a manual to read and, even if there had been, she probably would have skimmed it like she did most of the books she’d been assigned.  There was a scrabble of nails on the stones of the porch and the wooden door rattled in his jamb.  Darcy jumped back and gave a very undignified squeal.

“I-i-i-i-intent,” Bruce said, his teeth chattering. “Think of what you i-i-intend to happen. The words are tools.”

“They matter,” she disagreed. She was thinking back to the phrases she’d heard and the ones she’d used. All of them related, as if she was speaking the magic into being with rhythm and the rhyme. “And I don’t know any poems to keep the wolves at bay. You want a sappy love stanza, I know a hundred of those, but ‘hey, make the big bad magical storm go away?’ Not a single one.”

The timbers creaked as they shifted, the roof joists groaning under the pressure. She glanced up as a bit of dust rained down.

“The Hood and the Wolf?” Bruce suggested. “Hargrave’s Ride?  The Wanderer’s Lament?”[16]

“I knew I should have done my lessons but riding was much more fun. Philip would know. All I can think of are silly little songs and dirty limericks.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t think a rousing chorus of ‘Barnacle Bill’ will do the trick.”[17]

But thinking of that song brought another to mind, one by her favorite band with the really cute singer. “Bar the door, Casey, don’t let me in,” she half-spoke, half-sung. The pulse of power was palpable; she put her palm flat on the door and started the song over again, for once not thinking about hitting the right notes and staying on pitch.

Bar the door, Casey, don’t let me in

My shade’ll not cross your threshold again.

Bar the door, Casey, mind the way well

And send my poor ghost on to heaven or hell.[18]

 

As she sang, she imagined a bubble surrounding the house, pushing out, circling underneath and above. The wind dropped away, the building settled, and the temperature rose in the room as the energy poured out, pulling from her chest and down her arm. At first it felt good, a rush to know that she could do this, but when she ended the lyrics, the connection didn’t break. She tried to stop it, but the spell was draining her energy too fast. Every exhale bled out more and more of her life force until Bruce wrapped his hand around her wrist, giving her an anchor to hold onto. The bonding marks began to heat, and she welcomed the burn.

“I need you. Come back to me,” he murmured.

And, like that, the magic thread was broken. “Oh,” she sank down beside Bruce on the floor, her breathing shallow and quick. “That was … different.”

She took stock of their situation. Bruce was soaked to the skin, tremors running though his body as he fought to keep his eyes open. Her feet were no longer numb, tiny pinpricks of pain starting to flare, a good sign that she was warming up despite how much it hurt. Glancing around, she saw a sitting room with comfortable couch and chairs gathered around the large stone fireplace. To her left was a kitchen area that curved around out of sight; one door was in the far wall, and Darcy would bet that was a bedroom. With a sigh, she pushed herself up. Sitting here wasn’t getting anything done. Bruce’s chin was on his chest, eyes closed; he lifted his head and she ran a quick hand through his hair as she stood.

“I’ll get a fire going and then we’ll get warm.”

Through the kitchen she saw another doorway; it opened into a mud room with a second outer door. She checked that immediately; it was barred and locked. The little peep hole let her see that the blizzard was still raging outside. Even better than a secure door was the stack of firewood along one wall and the little pass-through boxes to load it. There were three small square doors, all full except one which Darcy took the time to finish filling. She peaked into what was a luxurious bathroom by hunting lodge standards. Hurrying back into the main room, she checked on Bruce who was sleeping and shivering, curled in on himself.

The other door opened into a bedroom; Darcy left it ajar as she went back and coaxed Bruce up. He groaned but let her half-drag him and sit him in one of the overstuffed chairs while she laid a fire, checked the flue and found the paraffin matches in their metal tin. The spark caught and lit the dried hemlock branches; their thin spindles crackled and sent up flames that licked the larger pieces of wood above them. Blowing gently, she encouraged it, proud of herself when the flames jumped higher.

Fire started, she turned to her next task, getting Bruce warm. Thankfully, the caretaker kept the lodge prepared; a thick quilt covered the bed and she only had to lift the lid on a wooden trunk to find more of the same. The linens needed airing, but they could live with it.

“Come on, Bruce. Help a girl will you?” she begged under her breath as she wrestled with the waterlogged leather vest, finally getting it off his shoulders. She got him up on his feet, leaning against the bedpost, and pulled his shirt over his head. The expanse of skin didn’t distract her; he was pale with mottled patches of red, but that was to be expected with the cold. What stopped her was the tattoo that covered a good portion of his right side, an exquisite piece of scrollwork with vibrant green lines that wove in and over each other, disappearing into the waistband of his pants. She couldn’t help but run her fingers over it, tracing one of the lines. Eyes half-opened, Bruce watched as she realized the line shifted, moving into new patterns.

“Gorgeous,” she breathed. Just the touch was warming her from the inside. “It’s magic, isn’t it?” His eyes were closed again so she received no answer; instead, she spread her palm over the design one last time then continued on, untying the laces of his pants and easing them over his hips along with his underwear. Wet leather didn’t want to cooperate but she managed, revealing the rest of the tattoo as she went. It curled along his hipbone and around his back; she was struck by a very really need to do more than just look, but he was shaking with cold and now was not the time. Once she got his pants to his knees, she sat him on the bed and pulled his boots, then the rest of his clothes.

She’d thought the first time she saw a naked man besides one of her brothers, it would be romantic and, with Fury as her father, probably on her wedding night. Now, in the slowly warming room, trapped in a storm, both of them freezing, exhausted, and battered, she spared only a glance at Bruce’s body before laying him on his back and tossing first one, then another and then a third blanket over him, tucking them in tight.

Next she hung Bruce’s clothes over the back of chairs and sat his boots on the hearth to dry then checked the fire, adding more logs onto the iron grate. Basking for a moment in the heat, she realized her own hands were shaking and her clothes half-dried, hair a tangled mess. The warmth made her want to close her eyes and she jerked awake before she fell over, half-asleep on her feet. Stripping, she spread out her clothes to dry as well and decided to throw caution to the wind. Lifting up the edges of the blankets, she crawled in and tugged them back into a cocoon around their bodies. She fanned her hair out behind her and nuzzled her cold nose into the curve of Bruce’s neck, huffing a warm breath over his chilled skin. He shifted and curled an arm around her, drawing her close without waking. In moments, she grew comfortably warm, her eyelids drooped, and she joined him in sleep.

 

[1] Brian Greene. _The Elegant Universe_. M-Theory and multiple universes.

[2] Nathan Rosen. Pioneer in the study of wormholes. Worked with Albert Einstein.

[3] Boethius. _The Consolation of Philosophy_. Classic Medieval text that mixes philosophy and astronomy.

[4] John Donne. “A Valediction Forbidding Mourning.”

[5] A famous popular tune of Shakespeare’s time, it’s included in _Much Ado About Nothing_.

[6] Alfred Noyes. “The Highwayman.”

[7] Yes, this is a reference to one of my favorite books about bards, _The Harper Hall Trilogy_ by Anne McCaffrey. The song Bruce sings is my own invention.

[8] Yeah, I made these up. But I can hear Menolly singing them.

[9] Shakespeare again. The storm on the heath scene from _King Lear_.

[10] Louise Imogen Guiney. “The Wild Ride”

[11] William Blake. “Tyger.” From _Songs of Experience_.

[12] Robert Frost. “The Road Not Taken.”

[13] Emily Dickinson. “I’m Nobody Who are You?” so are the next couple lines as well.

[14] Adrienne Rich. “Snapshots of a Daughter-in-law.” The actual line is ‘the beak that grips her, she becomes’ a reference to the myth of Leda and Zeus; it also refers to William Butler Yeats’ “Leda and the Swan” a poem I’ll probably shamelessly use later in this story.

[15] Adrienne Rich. “Diving Into the Wreck.”

[16] That’s _Little Red Riding Hood_ and “The Wanderer”, a medieval lament from the Anglo-Saxon period. “Red Hargrave’s Ride” is mentioned in the first _Bonds of Old_.

[17] “Barnacle Bill” is a very dirty sea shanty. Don’t say I didn’t warn you if you look it up.

[18] “Bar the Door.” Check out Rumjack’s version [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=rm66i2IGJPg).


	8. Be Our Guest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The storm rages. Darcy and Bruce seek shelter and meet an emissary from their enemy along the way. Phil battens down the hatches at home while James Barnes makes a quick appearance. Clint learns he might need to beware of amnesiatic thanes bearing gifts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone asked when we were going to get some Darcy/Bruce sex ... buckle up your seatbelts, children, cause here we go. 
> 
> After seeing CATWS, I had to add the first scene. You'll see why.
> 
> And a little Andrew for those of you who've asked where he is.

“This is not a normal storm!” Thor shouted to be heard, voice carried away by the fierce wind that pushed them backwards. Dismounted and leading the horses through the blowing snow, Clint knew they were close to a farmhouse, but finding the turn off was proving more than difficult. “I do believe there’s sorcery behind it.”

Mouth tucked behind his extra shirt that he’d used as a makeshift scarf, Clint only nodded his agreement rather than try to speak. Drawing in the icy air was already irritating his throat, and he really had nothing more to add. From the first rumbles of thunder and dark clouds that gathered far too fast to be natural, Clint had heard the undercurrent of the music, a low pitched introduction that grew in intensity as the storm approached, arriving in a clashing of cymbals and trumpet fanfare. He’d heard an orchestra while he was in the Outer Isles, crescendos with big metal drums that rattled the walls; this storm was blasting across the mountains and sweeping their way just like that.

His main worry was the other group of travelers who had headed Northwest, taking a route that would put them right in the heart of this weather monster. Jessica would get them to safety, he kept telling himself, and with Bruce and Fandral, they’d hunker down somewhere and ride it out. Everyone had thick cloaks and maybe they’d make it to the Riley farmstead before the worst hit. Here, on the Southern edge of the blanket of low lying clouds, they were assailed by winds and precipitation but so far they’d been able to keep going.

“I may be able to mitigate some of the intensity.” Thor offered his reins to Clint and unbuckled his hammer from his belt. With his long strides, he topped the next rise and began to spin the hammer in a circle, eyes towards the North. To Clint, it sounded like a whistle that grew in intensity the faster it went until there was an audible hum. More clouds began to form in the South, moving towards the magical storm, bumping together. The snow changed to a stinging sleet then rain as the line of the two shifted, pushing the snow further North, up and away from where they were. Clint wasn’t sure if the driving sheets of rain were any better, but then they lessened, more a typical fall shower than a storm and that was a definite improvement. Rumbles of thunder chased the last of the freezing cold away; a chill settled in its place, much more manageable.

“They do not call me the Thunderer for nothing,” Thor explained when he turned back, patting the hammer. “Mjolnir has many hidden talents.”

“I’ll take the rain,” Natasha agreed. “But I think the manor will still be in the storm’s path.”

“Aye, there is naught I can do at that distance. Nor can I dissipate the entirety of the malicious spell. I would aid our friends if I could,” Thor said, his gaze to the North where snow fell so heavily the landscape was obscured from their vision.

“Philip and Annamarie will batten down the hatches at home.” Clint knew that for a fact; he’d been getting little echoes of concern along the base of his spine since he heard the first notes of magic from his bonded. “And the others will be okay.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow at his assertion, but she wisely said nothing. Worrying wouldn’t help but Clint was good at it. “We must be close to the turn off,” Natasha said. “There’s Little Pigeon Creek just ahead.”

“There’s no use going on,” the voice said. “He’s long gone.”

Clint snapped around to see James Barnes standing just inside the tree line, a dark cloak covering his body, water dripping from the edges. His chainmail glinted in the wan light as he stepped another foot closer and lowered the hood, allowing Clint a good look at his face. No glowing blue eyes. Clint let out the breath he’d been holding; the man … if that’s what he was … was still a danger, but at least he wasn’t being controlled by the sorcerer at the moment. Clint took a moment to look over the man others called a ghost; this was the first time he’d actually met him in person. Natasha and Philip had been the ones to confront him at Hawk’s Leap, and Nat had left that experience with a mark on her wrist.

“You come to warn us?” Natasha asked, closing the distance as if pulled by an unseen string. For a second, Clint could see the spark of red that jumped between them.

“Merely returning what is yours.” A flash of silver and two knives sank in the now muddy ground.

“Who are you?” Thor, hammer still in hand, took a menacing step toward the newcomer. “Friend or foe?”

“That remains to be seen.” His hand reached towards Natasha’s face, curling around the curve of her cheek. “The days are growing darker, my time shorter.”

 Leaning closer, he whispered in her ear; Clint couldn’t hear what he said, just saw her reaction. Skin turned pale as the blood drained from her face; her eyes hardened and she lashed out, spinning with a kick that he dodged, his handprint red on her cheek.

“You’d do best to not trust anyone, least of all me,” he said. “For what it’s worth, I am sorry.”

Natasha dropped her head in her hands, face down as the rain continued. Surging forward, Clint was by her side; she pushed away his proffered arm and swiped the blood flowing from her nose, shaking her head.  By the time Clint looked for him, James Barnes was gone, slipping away among the trees.

“Nat?” He could see she was shaken; she played her cards close to her vest, never shared her past, not even with him.  Now, though, her emotions were flitting across her green irises, pain he’d never seen in their depths. 

“We should make our way to shelter,” Thor suggested, his voice pitched softer than usual. “We know not what else may be in the coming night. Walls would be better protection than open air.”

“The daggers.” Natasha nodded toward the ground. “He only took one of my daggers at Hawk’s Leap.”

For the first time, Clint really looked at the silver knives; one was familiar, a Toledo worked dagger whose mate was on Natasha’s belt. But the other, sapphire winking in the pommel, small rubies along the hilt, he’d never seen before. “You don’t think ….”

“Yes. Yes, I do,” she replied as she reached to pick it up. A flash of lightning followed by a roll of thunder split the sky as she closed her hand around the hilt and pulled it out of the ground. “This is Lord Roger’s dagger.”

* * *

 

“Get the lines secured,” Philip ordered. Men and women were scurrying in and out of the main hall, carrying provisions and other gear. “Guard House and Stables are the primary concern, and a path to the cistern and gardrobe. We don’t know how bad the storm’s going to get.”

William and Nathan were carrying wood in as fast as they could, Theodore carrying blankets out of storage and into the hall for pallets. Despite all of the improvements made on the roof, there were still places with leaks and weak points that might give way under too much snow. The hallways into the yet-to-be-renovated west wing were boarded up, but not well enough to keep the cold from seeping in. Philip had thought to have another good month of work before the first big snow came, but the fast approaching band of dark clouds belied that hope. Magic at work, Philip could feel the skittering down his spine, not of Loki’s signature cold, but something else, heavy, oppressive, and dark. When Philip’s own power stirred the weather, the rain that followed felt more natural, like he’d only hastened it along rather than formed it with intent. This storm felt malicious, like a purpose was building to a crescendo, tinged with satisfaction at the suffering the winds would bring.

“The stables are battened down,” Andrew spoke, drawing Philip’s attention back to the industry around him. “The horses are upset; they can sense the danger coming. I know we’ve got more important things to worry about, but could I steal Jamison? I thought he could play some quiet songs to help calm them down.”

Philip nodded; Andrew’s instincts about animals were growing. It was hard to even remember the man Andrew had been when he arrived at the manor; the ill-will between them was long gone, replaced by mutual respect. Risking his own life for Lady Melinda McCarter had cemented Andrew’s place as more than a camp follower and bed boy. He was now an invaluable member of the household. “Last thing we need are horses with broken legs; take Jamison and Mikal, they sing well together. Thank the gods the flues are clear and the walls rechinked. You should be warm enough, but grab some extra blankets. Those we have aplenty.”

“Will do, Philip.” Andrew turned to go, paused then put his hand on Philip’s shoulder. “They’ll be fine. Clint brought us through a hurricane once; he can manage a little snow.  They’re probably sheltered at a farm along the way, waiting this out.”

“I know.” Philip’s connection to Clint was strong despite the intervening magic; he knew something had happened to worry his husband but he was alive and well. “I’m more concerned about the others. This was aimed at them as if the enemy knew they were coming.”

That was the rub. Two attempts to take Darcy and Jane, and now a blizzard blowing right at them? It couldn’t be coincidence that Darcy was right in the path. If his sister was the one who could bring all of Rogers’ items together, then someone was working hard to make sure she didn’t have the chance.

“Jessica will keep your family safe. And then there’s Bruce.” Andrew huffed a laugh. “Bruce will do whatever’s needed and the Berserker? He’ll yell at the clouds and drive them away. He saved us, you know, on the road and at McCarter Hall. We wouldn’t have made it without him.” With a knowing look, Andrew continued. “Truth is, your sister is probably the one who found shelter and talked everyone into following her. She may not share your blood, but she’s got your determination.”

“I’d like to say I taught her all she knows,” Philip said, smiling for the first time in the last frantic hour. “But that would be classic Darcy. She’ll be in charge, I promise you that.”

* * *

 

He woke slowly, swimming up from the depths of a relaxing sleep, warm and lethargic, becoming aware of his feet and hands first, then legs and arms. Cold nose, that’s the first thing he consciously registered, followed closely by the weight holding him down, the way his hand was splayed over smooth skin, the strands of hair tickling his cheek. A small foot hooked around his, a knee pushed up against his thigh, swell of breast along his sternum. Fingers curled over his shoulder, stir of breath across the hair on his chest, and female hip bone aligned with his own. Skin, so much bare flesh, bodies wound together in the snug cocoon of heavy quilts. He saw the flickering light of a fire filtered through the crack he managed in his eyelids, burning low in the darkness of the room. 

He wasn’t completely awake but aware enough to know what he was doing as he skimmed his hand along the curve of her ass, cupping the swell which filled his palm, smooth and firm.  She murmured, turned slightly; her leg slid upward, thigh nestling just under his balls, and he sighed as his cock stirred, already semi-aroused from sleeping together. Turning his head, he buried his nose in the softness of her hair and let himself enjoy the moment, quiet, soft, warm, and not hurried. Skin to skin – he’d missed the feeling of such a simple intimacy, holding a woman in his arms, and the trust she was placing in him by giving herself over to his care. No one had done that in a long time, been willing to lay with him without getting paid since the accident. There was always the undercurrent of fear that he would lose control, not just from the women he’d shown interest in, but his own brain that worried about the intensity of his release and hands that clutched too hard, leaving bruises at best, breaking bones in his worst nightmares. Worry that he’d lose control, let his passions off the tight leash he kept them on; he’d hurt so many when angry that he dare not risk letting go during sex.

“You’re thinking too much,” Darcy murmured. “Go back to sleep. I’ll throw some wood on the fire; last time I checked, the snow was still coming down. Two feet, at least.” 

As she slid away, Bruce felt the rush of cold air when she lifted the quilts and got out of bed. He missed her immediately, and his other side rumbled in displeasure at the absence. Then he saw her pale skin, the mass of brown hair hanging down between her shoulders, the dimples at the small of her back, and her full thighs that brushed together as she moved. His mouth went dry and his cock gave a little jerk. She was gorgeous, smooth muscles flexing in her arms as she picked up logs to add them on top of the half-burnt pieces already aflame. Completely at ease with her body, she turned to pick up the poker and the side view was even more compelling: scoop of breast, taut nipples in the chill of the room, dark curl of hair between her legs all highlighted by the fire, an outline that seared into his body, bypassing his brain to go right to his gut. Sparks flew as she stirred the embers, flames licking up to catch the dry wood of the new fuel, and a different kind of spark lit inside of him, a settling of the inevitable, their connection bursting to life, fully formed.

“Come back to bed.” He meant to phrase it as a request, but it came out more like an order, a deeper growl beneath his sleep-ravaged voice. He didn’t want to keep fighting this thing that was between them, wasn’t sure why he was resisting when everything was conspiring to bring them together. She was an adult by any standards; women were often married and had children at a much younger age than her nineteen years, and she’d made her preferences clear. Still, he would give her the choice to opt out, change her mind. “If you want,” he added, raising up on his elbows and shrugging the quilts down his chest.

She turned to face him, her beauty knocking the breath out of his body. Lush curves, full breasts with rosy aureoles, puckered and hard, smaller waist, and wide hips; his cock didn’t care about any reservations his brain might have. It hardened against his thigh and gave an insistent pulse that signaled what it wanted. With a tilt of her head, Darcy smiled with just a flash of teeth.

“No arguments about how I’m Fury’s heir or need to stay all virginal because, well, whatever reason men give for saying that?” Her eyes were sparkling with humor, and her good mood infected him, slipping past the barriers around his emotions easily.

“Do you want to argue? We can, but I think there are better things to do with our mouths than spout nonsense.” It was true. All the reasons why and why not were mute in the face of the gravitational force that was pulling them together.

Keeping her eyes on his face, she crossed the small distance and tugged the quilts back, unveiling his body. Her gaze was a physical touch, phantom fingers trailing down his torso, and when she focused on his aroused cock, he could see the way her breathing sped up, the little flick of her tongue to moisten her lips. He reached his hand out to her; she hesitated only to look at his tattoo one more time, then slid her palm into his and let him pull her down on the bed beside him.

“I’ll always want to argue, but right now I agree.” Very gently, she began to trace the green swirls of pattern, following them as they began to change. “This is your magic, isn’t it?”

“Not mine. Someone else’s.”  There was no way to avoid talking about it.  Yet another reason he’d gone as long as he could and then used paid women and dark rooms. Darcy had to have seen it when she undressed him. He covered her hand with his, flattening her palm over his belly; the green curled out and spread under her touch, drawing a pattern around their fingers. “There was a book. There was always another book for me. Chasing down an older, more fragile, rare text. I love the feel of crackling vellum, the smell of old pages.”

She was mesmerized by the living tattoo; it unfurled across his skin, ancient letters and symbols, turning him into a page to be writ upon. With his other hand, he caught her chin and turned her head until he could see her expressive eyes.

“I was young and brash and full of my own self-worth. The warning was as clear as the old language could make it, and I ignored it. I rushed ahead without protection wards and this curse is what I got in return.” The memory of the explosion of magic, burning through him like acid, infecting his body and his mind, was as fresh a pain as the day it happened.

“Bruce.” She leaned down, and her hair brushed against his chest as her face neared his. “Mouths, Bruce. Remember?” He blinked, back in the moment instead of the past. “There you are.”

He tangled his hand into the hair at the base of her neck and tugged her down. With the lightest brush, he brought his mouth to hers; she kept her eyes open as she parted her lips, the tip of her tongue darting out to lick along the edge. The wash of heat from the fire warmed their skin as they kissed, faces in partial shadow. He’d call it magical, and it was, the bond active, letting him feel her emotions as his tongue swiped into her mouth. Anticipation coursing between them, the flush of her arousal, so new to her, and the sheer pleasure of Bruce’s touch. Every stroke of his fingers against the sensitive spots of skin came back two fold, a multiplication of her feelings with his. His other whispered suggestions but let Bruce take the lead, content at the moment to get to his destination at Bruce’s speed.

* * *

 

Darcy was falling, hard and fast. Bruce’s touch was nothing like in her dreams. She understood why poets wrote songs about kissing, why a woman would risk so much to feel her lover’s touch. Trails of fire, that’s what his fingers left behind, fire that spread to her breasts and the aching spot between her legs.  There was so much she wanted to do but she didn’t know where to start. Laid out for her, Bruce’s body was tempting, places to touch, nooks to explore, lines of muscles to run her hands over.

“I don’t know what to do,” she admitted.

“Talk to me,” Bruce suggested. “Tell me what you want, how you feel.”

That made her snort, and she blushed at the sound. Somehow, she never imagined laughing while losing her virginity. “Usually people want me to shut up.”

“They’re wrong.” Strong hand ran along her shoulder and down her arm, winding around her fingers and joining them. “I want to listen as you gasp with pleasure, hear the way your voice hitches when I touch you. Begging is always good and asking for what you want? Very sexy. Not that you need help in that area.”

“Oh,” she breathed out. “I can do that. Probably say really dumb things because, well, no experience, right?” Like a cork removed, the words were tumbling out now without any sense of control. 

With a quick flip, Bruce rolled them over; Darcy was on her back beneath Bruce’s weight. His face hovered above hers, his hands circled her wrists, one knee inside her thighs, the other along her outer hip. Heat flashed through her at the change in orientation, and she reacted without thought, arching her back until her nipples dragged through the dark curling chest hair.

“You like that?” he asked, dipping his body to rub his chest along hers again.

“Yes” She did, more than she’d imagined. The hazy arousal in her dreams wasn’t the same as the rough friction of skin against hypersensitive nipples or the long hard length resting in the hinge of her thigh, tip sliding up the curve of her belly. The tingling pinpricks between her legs, a throbbing ache that made her fingers twitch and her thighs clench. Bruce’s hands, holding her wrists tight, calloused and rough. She wiggled beneath him, an urgency growing. “More. More would be good.”

“Darling, we’re just getting started.” Bruce pushed up; cool air on her breasts made her nipples clench tighter, but the heated look in Bruce’s eyes made her shiver. “You’re gorgeous,” he said, eyes lingering on her face, her lips, her breasts.

“No lies in bed. My eyes aren’t even, my lips too plump, and getting these breasts in a court dress?  They’re too big,” she assured him.

“Who cares about clothes _?”_ Bruce asked. He took her hands and moved them so her fingers rested on his hairy thighs as his palms spanned her waist. “Your breasts are perfect. Do you want to know why?”

Too distracted by the gentle scrape of his nails as his thumbs swiped a circle on her belly, she could only nod in reply.  With a wicked grin, Bruce skimmed up her ribs, circled her breasts with his hands, palms cradling the full bottom, thumbs curled onto the side. “They’re a perfect fit. Not too small, not overflowing, just the right size, so easy to do this.”

She jumped when the thick pads of his thumbs swept across her nipples. “Oh.” A quick little moan burst from her lips.

“Or this.” His forefinger joined his thumb and rolled the nub between the two. “Or this.” A light pinch. “Or just hold them while I do this.” Head bent down and tongue flicked across the pink hardness.

The rasp of tongue followed by hot breath whispering across the moist skin sent tremors right down to her private parts, and she bucked her hips, not sure why, just knowing that she wanted more. “Oh my, that’s … I can’t … oh.” She broke off when he parted his lips and sucked her nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue as he massaged her breast with his hand. She wasn’t sure she could stand it, the torqueing tension that was starting to burn. Twisting, she was torn between wanting to rush ahead and wanting Bruce to keep laving attention on her breast. “I want … I mean I … Bruce!” He chuckled, mouth still suckling, and she moved her hands, winding her fingers into his hair and hanging on.

 “Have I made you speechless?” He lifted his head and looked at her through hooded eyes. “Imagine that. Darcy Lewis with nothing to say.”

“I have plenty to say,” she shot back, little time to gather her wits before he switched his mouth to her other nipple. “I just … I … yes.”  He didn’t stop until she was reduced to biting her lip to keep the most embarrassing sounds from coming from her throat.

“Such passion.” Bruce gave her breasts a final squeeze. “Gods, Darcy, you just throw yourself out there, lay your emotions bare.”

“Naked I think is the word you’re looking for,” she joked, thumbing through his curls. “Why hold back? Life is too precarious. This may be all we have, right now. I plan on grabbing you with both hands and not letting go.”

To underscore what she meant, she lifted up and kissed him; he sat up, pulling her with him, and wrapping his arms around her waist. Her hips rode up on his thigh and she gasped into his mouth as the movement parted her legs and rubbed his hairy leg against her swollen clit. It felt so good, she did it again and again, unabashedly riding him as she chased an unknown spike that was just beyond her reach. Bruce encouraged her, his hands clutching her ass and raising them up to half-kneeling then back down again.

 _Liscence my roving hands_ … the words circled in her head … _behind, before, above, between, below_. [1]

Bruce’s cock nudged her hip as he rocked her, leaving drops of pearly liquid where the tip touched her skin. So tightly wound, kept under control, Bruce was letting her set the pace. He was still worrying, and Darcy remembered something Natasha had told her. Acting without thinking, she skimmed a hand down his back and curled it around his hard length. The weight and heat surprised her, how he felt under her palm; mesmerized, she ran her thumb over the leaking slit, spreading the liquid on the head. So intrigued, she stopped moving, looked down and slid her hand down to the nest of dark curls, bumping her fingers against the twin sacks hanging below. She lightly brushed her fingers across his balls – Natasha had said to go gentle until she learned what he liked – and then pumped her hand a few times to experiment.

“Darce” came his strangled voice. The tattoo was spreading down his thigh and across his stomach, green undulating across his skin.

She dropped her hand and looked up at him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she blurted out.

“You’re not, it’s just, well, it’s been a long time for me and, yeah, that’s good, really good, too good if we want this to last, okay?” He took her hand and rested it on his chest. “Let’s try this instead.”

When his fingers slipped between the folds of flesh, brushing along her clitoris, she gasped out loud and tried to squeeze her thighs together at a flash of fiery heat. With an arm around her back, he eased her down on the bed and parted her legs wider, settling between them as he kept stroking. Each slide of fingers rocked her whole body; she clutched her hand into his hair, trying to ground herself against the waves of pleasure that rolled through her.

Silence wasn’t an option, even if she couldn’t form sentences. The sounds she made were primal and little more than exhales of breath, but they flowed, hitching in volume when he rubbed the sensitive clit between his thumb and forefinger. _The gates of the body, the gates of the soul_ ,[2] she echoed in her head, and reached for the rest of the phrase, but lost it when Bruce bent his head, held her open, and sucked her clit into his mouth.

“ _I dreamed you were a poem_.” The power exploded from her mouth, words pouring out. “ _To move openly together in the pull of gravity_.”[3]

Tongue rasped again and again then she felt the push of a finger into her wetness, slipping with ease and breaching her in the most intimate way. The closer they became, the more the magic built until energy and pleasure were intertwined, not just hers, but Bruce’s as well. Words came together, longer phrases, complete thoughts. When his mouth left her, she waited for him to lift his head, but his tongue dipped lower and she bucked hard enough to throw him off. A hand came down on her hips, holding her in place and he delved inside again with finger and tongue … and her conscious brain gave up control and let the magic take over.       

“ _When I pull you to me, taking you until we’re spent and quiet on the sheets, I love to kiss the picture on your skin_.”[4]

His thumb on her clit, his tongue deep inside, she shuddered and broke, magic flying free as she hit her climax and tumbled over. The bed shook, the fire blazed, and Bruce moved up her body, bending down to kiss her while she still trembled through aftershocks. She latched on to his taste, her taste she realized, and then his cock was slowly pressing in, spreading her, filling her. It wasn’t like the rumors whispered by young girls in fear of their wedding nights; she felt barely a twinge, her muscles loose, wet and ready for him. When he was fully inside, she glanced down and saw how they were joined, her white thighs open around his body.

“I think there’s more.” Purely by instinct, she clenched her muscles around him; he bit his lip and moaned.

“You are going to be the death of me.” He shook his head. “This is your first time, Darce. I’m trying to be gentle.”

She clenched again and added a wiggle; curling a hand around his waist and another along the line of his neck, she said, “There’s nothing gentle about us, Bruce. _Tonight I think no poetry will serve_.”[5]

Pulling out, he slowly pushed back and she sighed. It wasn’t uncomfortable, more unfamiliar, and she canted her hips up to meet his next slide. The rhythm of their bodies, give and take, in and out, brought to Darcy’s mind music, an erotic love song mixed with sounds and feeling and words. Her fingers rested on Bruce’s tattoo, and she could feel the way he held back, see the tension in his arms and the concentration on his face. Somehow, she knew what she needed, what they both needed, was for him to finish the circle, to touch her as she was touching him, with hands and bodies joined.

“ _I love to touch your tattoos in darkness_ ,” she began, forming the syllables to follow the song they were building. His eyes widened as the magic took him and he dropped down to his elbows, winding his fingers into her hair, up under her shoulders and along the white skin there. “ _It will last until we’re seared to ashes_.” He moaned her name like a petitioner at prayer and his thrusts grew stronger, rocking her body. She planted her feet and took the surge of emotion that spilled over from Bruce, turning it around and crafting it back into words. “ _Whatever persists or turns to pain between us, it will still be there_.” His hips snapped and she cried out at the burst of pleasure. Speaking was harder as the tension grew and magic surged.

“I … I …” he tried to say, bowing his head and resting his forehead on hers. She only had to arch her back to lift her lips to his, making the last connection as mouths met. Power flared and she was lost in the intensity of her coming orgasm, teetering right on the edge as she murmured the words into his mouth.

“ _Such permanence is terrifying_.”[6]

She soared, taking off and leaving everything behind but Bruce, their bodies entwined, emotions shared, power growing, circling, cementing their bond. Pain burned from her left hand up her arm and back out her right, a closed circuit of electricity from Bruce to her and back to him. But it was no more than a pinprick in the pleasure that engulfed her as she called his name and gave herself over to him. Sweating now, he was thrusting hard and fast, his eyes tinged with green, swirling lines of color streaking his cheek, his neck, and his shoulder. She floated and yet was still aware when he pulled out of her with a groan and came, white streaking across her stomach before falling onto his back beside her, chest heaving as he gulped deep breaths.

She lay still, cataloguing the new sensations, from the little aftershocks that pulsed in time with her heartbeat to the slight ache between her thighs as she shifted her legs. Absently, she trailed her right hand across her belly, through the pearly liquid there, lifting her fingers to look at the drops. She knew what this meant; Fury had no illusions about the dangers a young woman faced. Rape was a very real possibility for the daughter of a man who made many enemies and fostered jealousy at court. As was the ploy of getting her pregnant in order to force an alliance. There were still far too many who believed that once a girl was compromised, the only answer was a quick marriage no matter how terrible a match it was. Even Maria had been completely open about this part of sex; Darcy had been taking the best herbal mixtures that prevented conception since shortly after she bled for the first time.

“That doesn’t mean I don’t …” He propped himself up on one arm. “Now is just not a good time to take the chance.”

“Agreed.” She wholeheartedly understood. “Wargs and golems and magic; we’ve got too many other things to deal with. But I had my dose just last week; Aunt May’s blend is the most effective preventative in the kingdom.”

“You never cease to surprise me.” He stroked a finger along the side of her face, tucking a hair behind her ear. “One minute romantic poetry is coming from your lips, and then the most logical of statements. But I prefer the little sound you make when I do this.” When he tweaked her nipple, she let out a little squeak.

“Who knew you were so sassy?” she asked with a laugh, pushing at his shoulder with her left hand. “You seemed so quiet and reserved. Get you cold and naked and, wow, you’re a mouthy guy.”

“I do believe you like my mouth.” Catching her hand, he brought her fingers to his lips, kissing her knuckles. “And I’ve only had a little taste …” He stopped, turned her arm over and stared at her wrist. “Darcy. Gods help us.”

The tattoo was a bracelet that wound just above her wrist bone, an unbroken circle, one line that ran uninterrupted across her skin. As Bruce rubbed his thumb across the inside of her wrist, the tattoo moved, parting around the short strokes then coming back together.

“I didn’t think this could happen.” His worry sent tendrils of green up his chest. “This is my curse; that’s what she said, mine alone to bear. Gods be damned, I won’t have you infected, too.”

“It’s a mark, Bruce. A bonding mark, don’t you see?” Darcy turned on her side and held her arm up to the light. “It’s not the same as yours. Look the colors are different.”

Instead of the green that lined Bruce’s side, the slender curves were the same color that she’d seen from herself when Philip had linked them. Her favorite, a purple red that pulsed as she stared at it. Her tattoo curled in loops, softer and more rounded than the sharper corners on Bruce’s.

“I felt it happen; the magic went right up on arm and out the other hand where I was touching you.  There should be one on your chest, right …”

The five pointed star inside a circle was surrounded by intricate rays of the sun. She traced the black arc and cranberry sparks flew. Without thinking, she was speaking.

“ _The Soul selects her own society and then shuts the door … Unmoved though an Emperor be kneeling on her mat_.” Tattoo lines swirled on them both and the roof shook above them, stronger than the earlier winds. She remembered, then, her dream and Philip’s words on the battlefield. “ _I have chosen one from an ample nation then shut the valves of my attention like stone_.” [7]

Bruce shuddered as the power left her lips and fell on them both; Darcy could feel it whip to a frenzy around them, a din of noisy emotions whirling with them at the center. Then all fell silent, the drop so precipitous that her ears were still ringing when there was nothing left but their individual breaths.

“Fuck.” Bruce cursed in surprise. “They’re gone. All of them. Gods, not even in my sleep is it this quiet.”

“What did I just do?” Darcy asked, looking at her hand in wonder. The mark glowed with their joined auras beneath her fingers.  “What’s gone?”

“I think you just warded us.” Shaking his head in wander, Bruce covered her hand with his. “I can’t hear anyone else’s emotions but mine … and yours.” He flopped back on the bed, tugging her into his arms. “Since I was a kid, I could always sense how others felt; not read their thoughts, just emotions, the stronger they were, the easier to pick up. It was a cacophony in my head, so much anger and hate and lust.”

“Empathy. I read about that talent. Very rare.”  She was content to snuggle up to Bruce’s warmth and put together the pieces as they were revealed. “I had to read that book, the one by the woman with three names … Bradley? Fury made sure we all knew about gifts.”

“I always heard what a hard ass Fury was; seems everyone has him wrong.” Bruce rested a hand on Darcy’s back.

“Oh, he is a pain in the ass, trust me on that. ‘Do your duty,’ ‘Follow orders,’ ‘It’s for the best.” She huffed. “Yeah, he’s an obsessive compulsive who expects the worst. But I’m damn glad he made me learn all of that stuff now. Don’t tell him I said it, but turns out he was right.”

“Not a word, promise.” Bruce kissed the top of her head. In the flickering shadows of the firelight, she could sense his hesitation before he spoke again. “My father was a celebrated scholar, renowned for his work in the sciences. The Deans called him the brightest of his generation.  He theorized that the belief in talents was, at its best mental hallucinations, at its worst, flat out lies and subterfuge designed to bilk people of their money.”

“Oh.” The implications were clear, and Darcy felt the stir of Bruce’s emotions. “You had to hide your ability, didn’t you? Did your mom …” She honestly knew so little about his past, really knew next to nothing about him. The bond didn’t care, not needing anything more than the bone deep sense of belonging to bring them together.

“I manifested from the very beginning; even as a baby, I’d react to others in the room. Mother did what Father wanted, always; when he drank he was a brute of a man, taking out his frustrations on those weaker than himself. He sent me to the Men of Letters to be … examined and when that didn’t work he allowed them to experiment on me, try different … cures.” Bruce’s dark eyes were filled with memories, only half-seeing her. “I had to learn to tune the emotions out just by pure willpower alone.”

Lifting up, she took his face between her hands and kissed him lightly, making him look at her. “You’ve got me to help with that now.”

“I’m not sure what to do with the silence.” His mouth curved up in a sad little half-smile. “The noise has always been there, in the background, every day.  My whole life has been about controlling myself.”

“Well, I’m pretty sure dealing with me in your head is going to be a full-time job. Probably for the best that I’ve got you all to myself.” She dragged hand across his abdomen, playfully tugging on the dark hair. This, she decided, was her real power; getting people to laugh. “So, what am I feeling right now?” She wiggled her eyebrows.

His chuckle rumbled in his chest. “I don’t need magic to know that.” He cupped the curve of her ass and squeezed. “But you’ll have to wait a bit longer until I’m ready to go again.”

With a growl, her stomach made its wishes known. “Okay, then, food. You think there’s anything here? I’m missing those pasties that were in my saddle bag. And a brush. I could really use a hair brush right now.”

She rolled out of bed and tested some of the clothes draped across the furniture. Her quilted vest was still damp, but Bruce’s leather one was dry enough so she pulled it on, lapping it over and tying it closed. It fell to mid-thigh and left quite a bit of cleavage. “What do you think?” She posed for Bruce, turning and showing him both front and back.

“I think you’d best not wear that for anyone but me.” A flash of green lit his irises. He sat up and scooted to the edge, swinging his legs over. “Wear it with a pair of boots and we might not leave the bedroom for days.”

His words made her warm, to know he wanted her that way. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she promised, fully intending to use that information later. Tossing him his pants, she poked the fire and waited for him to pull them on before she opened the door to the outer room. Cold seeped in, but Darcy was happy to find that her ward seemed to have held; the front door was bolted shut, and, although it was colder without the fire, the building was not shaking from a malicious storm. They padded through the kitchen, Bruce exploring the small space; he opened the peep hole in the side door and shut it again.

“At least three feet and it’s still snowing, but it seems natural now, not magical. We’re not going anywhere for a while,” he told her. “Our friends the wargs may still be out there as well. Best to wait until we can see more than a hands length in front of ourselves.”

“Well, we won’t have to worry about fresh water,” Darcy agreed. They could always scoop up the snow in a bucket and let it melt.

They searched the kitchen and found a pantry closet with some staples lined up neatly on the shelves.  Darcy was delighted to find some jars of peaches and pickled eggs, one of her favorite snacks. A tin of half-stale soda crackers, some venison jerky in another tin and salt, sugar, and honey along with carefully stored tea. Beans and herbs with dried vegetables would make a good dinner if they were here more than a day. Bruce found the small door in the wall between rooms that housed some amphoras of wine, clay jugs that were kept in the cool stone.  They gathered up the food, some cups, and carried them back to the bedroom; Darcy shut the door before she curled up on the rug by the fire, setting out the goodies as if they were having a picnic on a sunny day. Bruce puttered, opening drawers, finding a silver grooming set with a comb and a brush.  She reached for them when he held them up, but he shook his head no, sitting down behind her and taking her hair in his hands.

“Let me,” he said. “We can work on figuring out how you made the warding sigil and if we can transfer it to others while we eat.”

She smiled, offered him half an egg as she leaned back against him and let him work on untangling her hair.

 

 

[1] John Donne. “To His Mistress on Going to Bed.”

[2] Walt Whitman, “I Sing the Body Electric”

[3] Adrienne Rich. “Twenty One Love Poems.”

[4] Kim Addonizo “First Poem for You”

[5] Adrienne Rich. “Tonight No Poetry Will Serve”

[6] Addinozio again for all of these lines. Lovely poem if you’re not familiar with it. I made a few changes to fit Bruce and Darcy.

[7] Dickinson’s “The Soul selects”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of gorgeous poetry for you here. I felt like I had to switch from Bruce's POV to Darcy's since it was her first time. Don't worry, there's some berserker sex coming up very, very soon. Darcy's pretty much demanding it in my head and she's very insistent.


	9. Distant and Dispersed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy and Bruce make plans while Philip decides it's time to take a stand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little guest appearance here from a Young Avenger .... ;D 
> 
> Lots of sexy times. Things get really moving in the next chapter; the pieces are going to start falling into place.

Darcy stretched her legs, feeling unfamiliar twinges in places on her body she’d become aware of yesterday in brand new ways. At least she thought it was yesterday; the oppressive greyness of the low hanging clouds and the lack of windows in the bedroom made it difficult to tell what time it was, just whether it was night or day. All the sleeping she’d been doing to recharge and rest wasn’t helping either. Her inner clock said they’d been here a good twenty-four hours or more, a good guess based upon the amount of wood they’d burned through keeping the room warm and cozy. The impromptu indoor picnic had tided over her hunger, but her stomach was empty again and she was thinking of getting out of bed to soak those beans. Last time Bruce had checked, the snow was still falling and getting out of the lodge was going to take a lot of shoveling, much less trekking through the forest back towards the road, assuming they could find it.

Lapsing into the lethargy that wanted to keep her in the warm cocoon of blankets and body heat, Darcy snuggled against Bruce’s long, lean length, tucking her hand under her cheek as she rested in the nook of his shoulder. His arm wrapped under her arm and around her back and she was loath to move. Evil waited for them outside the walls of this haven, and she was selfish enough to want to steal every moment she could for herself before they had to face what was coming. Eyelids drifted shut as she remembered the feel of him moving inside of her, the powerful charge that flowed between them. After they’d eaten and planned – Bruce was as obsessive a planner as she was,  coming at the problem sideways and from all angles, a trait that Darcy shared and was glad he appreciated in her – they’d gotten distracted by the warm rug by the hearth and the way the strands of fur felt as they slid along naked skin. Bruce had laid her out, hair spread beneath her, and proceeded to taste every inch of her skin, his mouth gliding along muscles, his tongue tickling as he kissed her. Cataloguing her body, he left no part untouched, thorough in his worship. She was surprised to find that even the lightest touch on the arch of her foot made her gasp, a tiny nibble in the bend of her knee stirred the heat in her belly and a mouth closing on the divots in the curve of her back caused her to buck into Bruce’s hands. She’d no idea the way her body was connected, seemingly normal little swaths of skin the key to shattering her composure. He’d made her come three times over the course of his exploration; that was the scientist in him, he’d said, a thorough examination vitally important to gather data about pleasure. No complaint on her part; when he sheathed himself in her while she was still pulsing from the last orgasm, he wrung another one with his slow and steady thrusts, exhausting her to the point he had to lift her up and tuck her back in bed before he joined her.

Breathing deep and steady, he was asleep now, face turned slightly away as he lay on his back. Through the crack in her eyelids, she stared at the angles of his face, the way his eyelashes curled up on the ends, the slightest bump in his nose. Stubble darkened his jaw and chin, as black as his hair that skewed all directions, flattened over his left temple and sticking to his forehead. Her fingers clenched lightly in the springy hair on his chest and she forgot about food as her tattoo spiraled around her wrist, reaching over the skin of her hand and down as she trailed her finger tips up and began to trace the angles, some hard, some soft. Overcome with a desire to look her fill, take her turn to learn as much as she could about him, she didn’t resist, pushing up on her other elbow until just the curve of one breast rested on his chest, the nipple shifting with the rise and fall of their breaths. She started with her fingers, then mouth, then tongue, mapping the features of his face with all her senses. His smell, his taste, the sounds he made as he stirred, slowly coming awake; she wanted to know all, file him into the deepest part of her heart. Teeth scraping on lobe of his ear earned her a long sigh. Dragging her tongue down the muscle from neck to shoulder got a huff; his leg moved to the side, opening up his hips as his cock began to fill out and grow. His hand spasmed on her back when she sucked in the skin where his collarbone dipped. Tugging the blankets down, she bared his chest and started to work her way over the expanse of muscle; he shivered as tendrils of her hair trailed behind her mouth.

“Darcy,” he mumbled, more an exhale than a name. That thrilled her; it was her name that came to his lips first, before he was even aware. This was a different kind of power, not magic, but something primal and older than time, the ability to reduce him to helpless little murmurs by a graze of tongue over his nipple or the slide of foot over calf. She had to remind herself to go slow as her own body heated up, aches rolling over into desire. Rising up and sitting back on her heels, she bent over and worked down his right arm, biting the folding skin in the crook of his elbow before she kissed each knuckle on his hand and then sucked his forefinger into her mouth. His cock jumped near the smooth fold her knee; she snugged it up closer, his balls resting firmly along her skin now so each time she shifted position she rubbed against him. Eyes half open, the dark depths were watching her, hazy but filled with the spark of desire. He was so responsive in this moment between sleep and waking, his usual reservations and worries not yet engaged.

Once each finger on that hand garnered her attention, she moved to the other one, starting with this thumb, sliding it between her lips and letting her teeth skid across the skin. She liked his reaction to that and did it for each of the other four in turn before working her way back to his shoulder. His hands came up to span her waist as she began to worry that sensitive nipple again, using his own example as a pattern to follow. She pinched it between her thumb and forefinger, teased with her tongue, nipped with teeth, then sucked it in, just like he’d done to her. His moan started deep in his throat, rolling out as a long sound that rocked his chest. Raising her head, she grinned at him and took in his face, flushed cheeks, mouth parted.

That was all the encouragement she needed to keep going; the dark arrow of hair that narrowed down his pelvis fascinated her and she chased it with her fingers first. She knew it was teasing to let her breast bump against his cock, but the rumble he gave when she did it a second time, deeper, more like the Hulk’s voice, urged her to continue. As her mouth bypassed the hard length and purple head, she planted one hand on the bend on his hip, her thumb close to the wrinkled sacs and fingers spread along the bone. Her hair, wild and tangled again, wrapped around the length as she shifted around to kiss behind his knee and get into a good position to shove the covers aside so his toes were fair game. 

“Darcy.” This time her name was infused with a warning, a very deliciously sexy growl in his voice. She couldn’t stop the moan or the way she clenched her thighs as a flare shot tendrils up her body. Then his hands were on her skin – she hadn’t stopped to consider the way she was kneeling, her ass in the air and pointed to the side within an easy reach – and fingers dipped into the cleft there, going straight for her clitoris, making her forget what she was doing. Dropping her cheek onto his ankle, she rocked back into him, surprised just how fast her resolve was breaking in the face of the pulsing heat he was making.

“Wait, wait, wait.” She pulled away and turned around, kneeling now between his legs, pushing his thighs out. “I’m in charge and I’m not done yet.”

“Yes, ma’am.” His eyebrows rose slightly and he dropped his hands, opening his legs, leaving her plenty of room to explore. “If you need any advice …”

He was playing with her, amused and aroused, she could tell. Good. A tiny bit of her brain had worried that he would balk, tell her that good girls didn’t want to touch or enjoy. Despite no evidence to support that he believed such drivel, she was so programmed that the doubts lurked anyway. Ladies didn’t want to look, much less be as fascinated by men’s bodies, but Darcy was realizing that she was absolutely fascinated by his cock.

“Tell me if I do anything wrong.” The words were out before she thought about how they sounded. Wrinkling her nose, she amended herself. “I mean, tell me what feels good.”

The first touch was gentle and she went for the heavy circles underneath rather than the hard curve of cock. A tickle, drawing circles on the wrinkled skin, she weighed them, got the feel for them in the palm of her hand.

“That’s good,” he said in the breathy voice she was coming to recognize. “Not too hard, don’t squeeze. Them anyway. You can squeeze him if you want.”

“Him? Tell me you don’t have a name for him because I’m going to call him Little Hulk.” Her middle finger rubbed along the smooth skin just behind, and he jolted under her.

Drops of pearly liquid appeared in the slit of his swollen head.  “Little Hulk? No way you can say that in public …” She scooped them up with a finger of her other hand, and, on impulse, sucked them off the tip. “Fuck. Fuck,” he groaned, his eyes burning as he followed the path of her fingers back to do the same thing again. “You can call it whatever you like.”

Salty. Not exactly pleasant, but not as nasty as she’d been told. For some reason, it reminded her of oysters she’d eaten once at Lord Stark’s; add enough spicy sauce and they were quite good, she remembered. Her second taste confirmed her first impression, but she had to admit the way Bruce was losing control made it much more palatable.  He was certainly leaking more and more; the only answer was to try what Natasha had suggested. At the time, Darcy had thought the logistics were complicated and the image in her head didn’t sound appealing, but now she was beginning to see the allure.

The skin of his cock was warm under her tongue; she lapped, barely touching the tip to the slickening head.  She tried circling the edge, then kissing along the prominent vein, using one hand to hold him steady and upright as she experimented. First things first, she realized; she caught her hair and held it out of the way with her other hand to keep the tendrils from getting caught in the sticky liquid. Then she set to business; if he had learned all her inner most secrets with his mouth, she would do the same.

“Yes,” he’d half-moan when she did something he liked. He used his own hand to guide her to the right spot, and he encouraged her with fragments of phrases, “lower, there, harder, softer, gods, Darcy, please.”

Finally, she worked up the courage to part her lips and take first the tip into her mouth then begin to work her way down. She knew the mechanics of how this worked – when she’d said she’d read about it, she really had, the kind of books that had red covers and were placed high on the top shelves. But none of the words prepared her for the thickness, the weight in her mouth, the way her lips thinned around his girth as she pushed down. She could feel it pulse in the back of her throat, and she fought to not gag as she pulled back up.

“Okay?” He managed to ask despite his hands being fisted in the sheets.

“I think that’s my question,” she joked, and took him all the way in one long slide until she couldn’t go further. Bobbing her head, she sucked, easier then harder with his encouragement. His hands found their way into the tangled mess of her hair, keeping it back from her face as he cradled her face with his palms. She could feel the way he held back, only occasionally forgetting and snapping his hips up in a fast thrust that took getting used to. But she could get used to it, and she imagined the way he’d take charge, stilling her and using his own power to finish himself. The thought intrigued her and she wondered what it would be like, the rush of his seed into her mouth. She’d just about decided to push him and find out when he pulled her mouth off of him and tugged her up.

“Come here,” he asked, no, ordered, the Berserker lurking just below his skin, close. She looked and saw his tattoo creeping up his cock, around her fingers, mixing with her own colors bleeding down her palm where their skin met. A frisson of something dark in her gut, a desire she didn’t have a name for, and then their mouths met, lips fusing into a burning kiss that drove everything else away.

Gasping by the time he let her up for air, she was shamelessly rubbing her hips against him. “Please,” she begged.

“You’re in control, remember,” he replied, but he patted the bed on either side of his hips with his hands. “Put your knees here.”  She did, straddling him. “Lift up.” She sat up until she was kneeling, his hands on her hips to steady her; the length of his cock rocked against her hot folds and she suddenly saw where he was going. “That’s good; I know what you want. You just have to take it for yourself. Give me your hand.” He moved one of his hands to take hers and guide it around his cock. With a sigh, she positioned herself and began to sit down, pressing him deep inside. She was wet and ready, sinking easily until she was seated all the way. The angle changed the way he felt; his cock shifted and rubbed and suddenly sparks zinged through her, out to her clit and up to her nipples. They puckered as she moaned and he laughed, a deeply possessive sound that she already loved. “That’s it, baby. Just like riding a horse. Find your balance and make it …”

Darcy rose and came down hard; his words strangled off as she clenched around him. “No one sits a saddle as well as I do,” she told him, leaning in enough to brace her hands on his sides, her left palm in the middle of his tattoo. “Hold on.”

She loved riding, going all out with abandon, flying across the ground with the motion of her horse’s flanks between her legs. This was much better, so much more intimate and satisfying.  Each rise and fall shook her as he slammed into the knot of nerves tucked deep inside her; she gave him no ground, using the muscles she’d developed to stay upright to tighten in on each downward slide. He wrapped his palms around the hinge of her hips and did as she ordered, letting her set a pace that was filled with the sound of skin against skin, panting breaths, and a litany of moans and groans.

As they spiraled higher, their tattoos mingled, her hand lost in the green and cranberry twisted lines of two lives joining. Up her thigh, along her forearm, the colors twined; across his chest and up to his throat, scrolling into a new design.

“You are the curve I burrow into,” she whispered, watching the pattern emerge.

“The strength I borrow,” Bruce replied, hands clenching her tight as he thrust his hips up to meet her.

“You are the red sun rising over the mountain.” Flying too close to the sun, that’s what this was, an energy untapped that exploded as she felt her orgasm roll through her, out through her arms into him, back into her through his hands. “You are the mountain.”[1]

He rolled her off of him as she shook with the intensity of her climax, falling easily onto the bed next to him as he finished himself off with a couple quick jerks of his hand, coming on his stomach, shouting, his back bowing upwards before he collapsed onto the bed. Searching, his hand found hers and clasped tight as they both came down.

“Does it get better every time?” She finally asked. He laughed and turned on his side, running his hand across her stomach.

“We can hope.” He dropped a kiss on her shoulder. “So happens, I know how to make a mean bowl of soup. What say we clean up, get dressed, put on a pot, and check outside? I’ve slept enough.”

“No such thing. I could stay in bed all day.” She tilted her head towards him. “To be honest, this is the best sleep I’ve had in long time. No Asgardian princes or dragons or cryptic rhymes.”

“That’s odd.” Bruce’s eyes lost focus like they did when he was thinking, remembering something he’d read.  “You and Philip have connected through your dreams; I would have thought the magic of the storm would stir that not dampen it.”

“Maybe that’s what the storm was supposed to do, cut us off. That knight in the forest, the one with the green cape … he was going to take me; if Philip could find me, that would defeat the purpose, wouldn’t it? And we were all split up, Phil back at the manor, Clint in another place …” The more she thought about it, the more it made sense. “But they don’t know about us or they would have waited until we weren’t together. That’s good, gives us a leg up.”

“An advantage we can use. As soon as we get out of here,” Bruce agreed.

“Well, right now, food sounds good. I’m glad you can cook; Aunt May won’t let me near the kitchen after I burned the Yule roast one year.  All I had to do was watch it while May went to find the chef who was drunk for the first and last time. I can burn water.”

Despite his assertion that he was hungry, he made no move to get up. “I either learned to cook or didn’t eat. Nothing fancy, mind you, but I make a good stew and a mean batch of venison jerky.”

“I like my jerky spicy,” she teased because she could.

“Then we’ll see what we can do about that,” he promised.

* * *

 

“You’re going to worry yourself into sickness.” Annamarie had no problem nagging Philip about his tendency to work too hard. “No one is traveling until the roads are cleared.”

“That’s why I’ve got the crews out working on the main routes, so they can make it home.” There was still so much to do even though they’d caught only the edge of the snow band; he could only imagine how much the McCarters and the Fraisers were buried under to the north.  “We’ve got three roofs to fix in the village and the apothecary wall collapsed. The storehouses need to be checked for weatherproofing and  …”

“Home?” Annamarie stopped him with a hand on his arm, and he realized what he’d said.  Her smug smile told him how she felt about his word choice.

“Home,” he agreed.  “I just wish I knew they were safe.”

“Well, use your bond.” Missouri came around the corner of the hallway, arms full of heavy canvas. The dark skinned woman had been invaluable, working just as tirelessly as Annamarie and Philip. Her infectious good humor helped buff away the ragged edges of people watching snow pile up outside the windows.

“It doesn’t work that way; I can’t just shout and Clint answer.”

“Sure you can. You share dreams, right? Why not communicate while awake? I know a farspeaker who worked for the library, talked regularly to the young thane of Lord Xavier’s … her name was a color, I think …” She shrugged as if the idea of talking across great distances was perfectly normal. “I bet there’s a spell in one of your books to boost the bond.”

“I don’t think there’s …” But there was and he remembered reading it in the Solomon grimoire, one of the first verses, a simple spell for beginners. He knew he’d jumped a few steps, gone straight to using his magic in battle, and had been thinking that he needed to build from the basics. Bruce had suggested he treat his magic the same way he did his sword training; he was a novice and needed to begin a regime to develop his skills.

“The Smithy’s clear, so hie on down there and get to work. You’ll feel better once you make sure and you’ll get more accomplished without worrying.” Missouri dropped the canvas in a growing pile.

“Take one of the boys with you, just in case.” Annamarie waved William over and gave him clear instructions. “Go with Lord Philip. If he blows anything up or hurts himself or falls unconscious … use your own judgment about what’s an emergency … come get me.”

“I am not going to cause an explosion,” Philip protested. Annamarie merely raised an eyebrow and stood there. “Maybe shake things up, but that’s it.” She still didn’t move. “Fine, I’ll take William, but he’d be better used here with the tarps.”

Lately, Philip was beginning to understand why Clint moaned so often about the bossy women of the manor. When he’d first come to this place, everyone had treated him with kid’s gloves, worried he’d leave or not be happy. They’d so desperately needed him to help them rebuild that they’d been extra careful around him. Everyone except Andrew, who’d tried to weasel his way back into Clint’s bed, and Natasha, who’d kicked him in the ass and told him to go after what he wanted. Now that he was settled and part of the community, they’d started treating him more and more like one of the family. Philip found, as much as he was annoyed by the meddling and familiarity of the staff and company, he loved being part of it. He fit here in ways he’d never managed at Tarian Castle. He and Clint were a unit, yes, but they were also parts of a whole comprised of all of these wonderful people.

Bundling up in his big coat, warm gloves, and long scarf, he started down the hill with William in tow. The boy had his hands jammed in his pockets, fingerless gloves virtually useless in the bitter cold wind that whipped along the hill side. Making a mental note to check all the pages and squires’ gear, Philip marveled at the growth spurt William had undergone in the few short months Philip had been here. The gap of skin between coat sleeve and glove meant William was growing in height if not girth. Theodore, on the other hand, was getting thicker, his practice with a staff adding musculature to his frame. Another thing to mark on the to do list; Philip was sure that the boys knew about sex, but Philip believed that knowledge made for better decisions, so it was time to sit them down and have the talk. He wondered if he should send for that book that had worked so well with Peter and Darcy; put it out of reach, make sure they overheard someone  talking about it being off limits, and then let them have access to sneak it back to their room. Thank the gods he hadn’t had to explain to Darcy about how babies were made … and he needed to stop that train of thought because Darcy was with Bruce and Fandral right now, hopefully in a tiny farmhouse sharing a room with Jessica, Jane and Peter. Last thing he wanted to dwell on was Darcy having sex with a man Philip considered a friend and colleague.

He had to watch his step in the slick snow, but the claw-like treads he’d strapped on his boots worked like a charm. Carol had passed them around as the snow started and showed Philip how to use them. Part of living this far north, Philip realized, along with blizzards and a long, dark winter. He’d have to get used to the idea of avalanche training; Clint had already ordered him a pair of skis and new snowshoes. Philip hadn’t latched himself onto the thin strips of wood yet, half-convinced they wouldn’t hold him up. Plans were being made for another trip to the hunting lodge to teach Philip how to use both of them, but they’d expected to have at least another month before it became necessary.

Luke Cage was in the smithy, working with Fergus, the castle smith; he waved a hand at Philip as he passed the open doorways. Both men wore nothing but pants, a light shirt, and a heavy apron as they worked the forge and bellows, and they were sweating despite the cold temperature outside. The blazing fire kept the whole building warm; as Philip opened the door to the workshop, he was surprised by just how comfortable it was with an empty grate. He peeled off his layers and hung them up by the door, stomping his feet just inside to kick off excess snow from his boots and his pants. Should have brought a change of shoes, he thought, as he unhooked the treads and set them aside. Maybe he should keep a pair of slippers in here; another line on his list, he thought, and started a subset of things to do to make the workshop viable in winter.

Without being told, William scurried over to the fireplace and started working on their own little blaze; he’d left his coat and hat in a puddle, literally, by the door. Absently, Philip hung them up so they wouldn’t get wet from the melting snow, his mind already on the spell. It was easy to find, right where he remembered it, and, as he read over it a few times, grabbed a few more books to double check some things, and worked out the logistics in his head, William sat a second cup of hot tea beside him. He blinked; he hadn’t realized how much time had passed, but there was a kettle over the fire and the shadows had shifted across the table enough to know it was going on late afternoon. The spell itself was simple and needed nothing more than a little quiet, a containment circle, and a bit of will. Standing, Philip moved the table back and made room in front of the hearth for comfort’s sake. He swept the area well, took a piece of chalk Bruce had moved in with the board for equations, and drew a circle on the smooth packed dirt of the floor big enough to sit cross-legged inside. Before he closed it, he paused and looked over at William.

“Nothing’s going to happen,” he assured the boy who was watching with wide brown eyes. “I’m going to sit down for a bit then I’ll get up. Don’t interrupt me; I need to concentrate.”

“How long? I mean, how long is too long?” William asked. “Annamarie will have my ass if I don’t go get her and something goes wrong.”

Philip thought about it. He really didn’t know. “An hour. If I haven’t moved or spoken for an hour, go get someone.” According to what he’d read, the connection, if it worked, would take place entirely in his mind; he wouldn’t actually be saying anything out loud which, he thought, was a good thing considering what usually happened when he used magic around Clint.

He took a breath and closed the circle with a nudge of power. The snap as the spell connected thrummed in his head like a deep, long string of a harp; even separated, Philip was starting to hear magic as music just like Clint, the boundaries of their own abilities becoming indistinct. Once he was settled on the ground, he closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind which was harder than expected. Philip had far too many threads in his head waiting to be woven together; it took time to shut down each avenue of thought and let the trails of worry go. Finally, he was floating in the partial glow behind his eyelids and he turned his focus to Clint, casting out to look for the line that was his husband.

Time passed. Nothing happened. Thoughts flitted in, distracting him. He pushed them away and focused more energy on the spell. More time; still nothing.

With a sigh, he opened his eyes. Maybe he’d missed something in the text, a nuance. He just needed to break the circle and reach for the book.

“William, I’m going to …”

The boy was sitting on the stool by the fireplace, slumped over as he watched Philip. But superimposed over him was the semi-transparent figure of a young man with spikey black hair held back with a red band. His ragged red cape covered black armor and the sheath of a slim silver sword. There was no mistaking the familiar brown eyes that stared down at Philip.

“Phil.” The older shadow William grinned. “You put a little too much spin on the spell. A rookie mistake when you have as much untrained power as you do. The spell isn’t just for communicating across distance … with enough juice, you can cross time as well.”

“You’re you. But in the future? How?” Philip asked, confused.

“Magic!” William laughed and Philip could see right through him as he spread his arms. “You never me let get away with that explanation; nice to finally get to use it for once. But right now, you need to pull back and try again; you need to contact Clint and set things in motion.”

“Things? What’s going to happen?” Philip wanted to know. “Do we find the armor? Who’s behind this? How does Loki fit?”

“Sorry. Of everyone, I know better than to tell you anything that might affect your choices. You’ll figure it out; you’re one of the smartest men I know.” Reaching a hand out, a red glow surrounded his fingers and merged with Philip’s magic circle. “Try again, Phil. Try, try, try again.”  The hum in Philip’s ear changed pitch and the older William began to fade. “I can’t wait to tell Teddy I was the one!”

In a heartbeat’s span, Philip saw only the younger William, a faint outline of red around his smaller body. Philip felt like he stepped out of his body and floated out of the room, past the smithy where Fergus looked like he always did, but Luke Cage’s eyes rose to meet Philip’s as he paused to note the yellow aura around the big man. Then his consciousness was moving up the hill, through the guard house (Carol, bright blue with a golden edge), the stables (Andrew, a chestnut brown), and the manor (Theodore, bright green, Nathan, a dark grey, and Annamarie, silver).

He thought of Clint and was zooming across the miles, white landscape melting away beneath his awareness until a farm appeared on the horizon. Inside the sprawling house with multiple additions, he passed a family seated around a fire, listening to Prince Thor (red with silver) tell a story, into a separate room where Natasha was sleeping (a woven pattern of black and red) and Clint sat in a chair beside her, his purple aura  a bright line reeling Philip closer. Sensing Philip’s presence, Clint’s head came up and his eyes widened.

“Phil?” he whispered. “Is that you?”

“I’m here. Using a spell.” Philip said and Clint clearly heard him. “Trying to find where you are and if you’re safe.”

“We’re fine,” Clint assured him. “We caught the edge of the storm. It was …”

Philip broke in and continued the thought. “…from the sorcerer, yes, we came to that conclusion as well. It was aimed at …”

“… Darcy and the others. Have you tried to find her? She’s your sister so …”

“… I might be able to aim the spell her way. I’ll try that next; I thought with our bond …”

“… I’d be the easiest, yes. Makes sense.” Clint glanced at the doorway; no one seemed to notice their conversation. “We met James Barnes again.” Clint explained in broad strokes what had happened on the road.

“He touched Natasha?” Philip looked more closely at the red-haired thane. Silver wound around her wrist and curved  up onto her cheek.  “Another bonding mark?”

“More. I’ll explain later. She’s tough; she’ll be fine. We should be able to get out of here tomorrow morning or late afternoon; the horses can make it through now that it’s stopped snowing. If you locate the others, we can swing by and rendezvous with them.”

Clint began to fade around the edges and Phil put a bit more energy into the spell. “I’ll do that now and let you know.”

Because he didn’t have a sense of how long the spell would last, Philip turned his attention to roughly what he thought was north and pulled the last image he had of Darcy, riding out of the courtyard, laughing at something Jane had said, into his mind’s eye. Without hesitation, his consciousness soared across the snow covered landscape, past trees that went from white to ice covered. The drifts grew higher, the paths disappeared in the unmarred white. The storm effects grew worse the farther he went and his heart beat faster as he rushed into the tree line, between the boles, slowing almost to a stop above a slope down to a stream.  Protected by the low hanging branches, warg bodies lay lifeless, crushed by large hands; Philip barely had a chance to register the Berserker’s handiwork before he sensed the other presence, a faint echo of immense power, focused around a circle of bare earth near the running water. Then he was moving again, up the hill and, as he entered the clearing and pushed through the door of the lodge, he was worried what he would see. But he was inside the living area, turning into the kitchen where Bruce was spooning up bowls of something warm and Darcy was pouring wine into mugs. A fire burned in the hearth; Bruce was wearing only pants and Darcy had his vest wrapped around her body. Between them flowed an intricate pattern of green and deep cranberry, mixed lines that curled around each other, joined and connected at places on their bodies. Philip wondered if that was what he and Clint looked like, a visual representation of their bond in their auras.

Bruce’s head came up and he turned his eyes to where Philip hovered. “Someone’s here. They’re … worried? Uncomfortable? Embarrassed but relieved?”

“Phil!” Darcy looked right at him. She was happy, content in a way he’d never seen, her normal ebullience tempered by Bruce’s calm. “The others. Are they safe? We got separated on the road; Hulk saved me from the wolves and then this green warrior/mage guy tried to kidnap me, but we got away and Bruce knew about the lodge and I used magic to find it and protect it from the storm which was a spell, Phil, a big old blizzard blown up by a sorcerer. Oh, and I figured out how to do that protection charm thing and think I can use it on others … I did it for Bruce … and we were just talking about how to get out of here now that the snow’s stopped but that’s why you’re here, right?”

Maybe not completely settled, Philip thought; Darcy was still Darcy. “I don’t know about Jessica and the rest. Clint’s group took shelter and the manor is snowed in but we weren’t hard hit.”

“We’re safe enough here,” Bruce said. “We can wait it out until someone can get here, but I don’t know how long a window we have before the sorcerer strikes again. He wants Darcy, said she was dangerous ‘just like her’.”

“You can hear him?” Darcy seemed surprised.

“Through the bond, I think.” Bruce shrugged. “Not sure how it’s working but it is.”

The edges of Philip’s vision began to blur, shrinking inward. “I need to …” He could see William’s face in the haze, close now, mouth moving, saying something. “I’m running out of …”

“No one sees the fuel that feeds you.”[2] Darcy’s words caused a flood of power that buoyed Philip up. Instead of narrowing, his vision expanded, rolling out from the lodge and over the countryside. He passed the Riley farm where Peter jerked up from his afternoon nap to call Philip’s name. In seconds, he was back in the room with Clint.

 “You found Darcy.” Clint stood. “I can see you this time.” He reached out, but his hand passed right through Philip, leaving only a shiver of phantom heat.  

“Gods, but she’s powerful,” Philip mused. “She and Bruce are at the Lodge; Jessica and the others are at Riley’s.”

“We’ll round them up and come home,” Clint promised.

But Philip shook his head. “No. We need Singer. It’s time to go on the offensive; if Darcy can use her power to call the rest of Rogers’s armor, we do it now. Before they make another attempt to take her. This is it, Clint. We make a stand.”

 

 

[1] Lisa M. Karan. “You are the Mountain.”

[2] Naomi Shahib Nye “Hidden”


	10. Adventure in the Great Wide Wonder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans are made, Bruce talks to Philip, and there's romance brewing between a prince and a scholar. And the Hulk makes an appearance.

Philip stopped in the doorway when he saw the two heads of dark hair bent together over the book on the table. Since arriving at Singer’s place just an hour earlier, Philip had studiously avoided the subject of Bruce and Darcy’s bonding. Not that he was upset by the connection, but Darcy was his younger sister. He’d never accepted the idea that women needed to be taken care of – Maria had already put that notion to rest – nor did he believe that a political marriage was the only logical future for Darcy. And he respected Bruce, liked him, counted him as a friend; Philip had no qualms about Darcy in a relationship with him, even maybe marriage, if that was where this was headed. No, to be honest, it was the sex that made Philip uncomfortable. Darcy was so open and free with her affections; Phil the opposite, buttoned up and tightly controlled. Or at least he used to be before Clint.  Knowing that his sister was sleeping with Bruce made Philip feel awkward.

“They look good together.” Clint stepped up behind him and slipped his arms around Phil’s waist. Warm breath nuzzled Philip’s neck as Clint brushed his lips along the skin behind his ear.

They did. Darcy was seated, leaning over the big leather bound tome, talking, her hands moving in punctuation to what she was saying. Standing close, Bruce was turned slightly towards her, a hand on the back of her chair, head bent down near hers. Listening, his eyes were roving her face, a caress of skin without touch. A tendril of hair slipped across the curve of her cheek; he raised his hand, fingertip dragging the errant curl and tucking it behind her ear as she continued her exposition of the passage on the page below. The simple act spoke volumes to Phil and a warmth spread in his chest, an echo of the way Clint’s gaze felt on him.

“They do,” Philip agreed, chin turning to look at his husband. “Like us.”

“You should give Bruce permission,” Clint suggested. “Sit down and talk about the implications of being part of Fury’s family. I haven’t given him a thane gift yet, you know. Might not have a lot of disposable cash, but land I have plenty of.”

“Fury will be more interested in the berserker and Bruce’s knowledge of magic,” Philip admitted. “Nick always says you have to look beyond the cover and see what’s underneath. But I like the idea of them being close to us; I’ll talk to him.”

Clint turned Philip in his arms, pushing his back against the jamb. “So why are you so jumpy around them? Is it because you’re worried about the danger or that baby sister is having wild kinky sex with a very handsome, very strong big guy beneath the same roof?”

A blush rushed up Philip’s cheeks at that mental image. “Thank you. Now I’m going to lay awake all night thinking about what’s happening down the hall.”

“Don’t worry. You’ll be too busy trying not to shake the rafters and scream my name to worry about it.” Clint sucked a bit of scruff along Philip’s jawline; Philip hadn’t bothered to shave in his haste to leave Barton Manor and the longer than usual journey on the snow covered roads had left him exhausted.  He would have ridden all night to get here if Andrew and Rodriguez hadn’t insisted they stop for a couple hours of sleep.

“You are very sure of yourself,” Philip teased, forgetting for the moment that they were in easy sight in the hallway. He settled his hands on Clint’s belt and tugged him closer; he’d missed Clint’s strength and his touch. “I’m not sure I like being that predicable. Nick always lectured me on variation and flexibility as keys to strategic success.”

“True, true.” Clint’s agreement came in a whisper in his ear, Clint’s cheek brushing along Phil’s as he leaned in. “Maybe my need to be inside you is what’s predictable. That’s my weak spot; put a naked Phil in my bed and the world can burn while I take you apart.”

The punch of the words made Phil’s eyelids drift closed; he sighed as Clint’s mouth tugged on his earlobe, tongue tracing the whorls. “That’s not fair,” Philip murmured, a mock complaint. “I haven’t slept in days and you’re talking about bed.”

“Mm-huh.” Clint’s mouth traveled back to Philip’s mouth, light kisses on the corners of his lips. “Bed sounds good. Now. No one will miss us …”

“Oh, wow, um, yeah, guys can we not, I just, wow. Here?” Peter had come from the doorway downstairs and he stood stock still, face red and eyes wide. “Yeah, I’ll just, the study, right, books, I came for books …” He brushed past them and stepped into the room only to pause again. “Oops. Sorry, Darce. I didn’t, Phil is, I mean, Clint is. I should just …”

“Actually, we think we’ve found something if you want to come in,” Bruce said, his hand slipping from Darcy’s back to the chair again. “A better spell for the protection glyph. Much broader and less ...” Bruce hesitated “… intimate.”

Clint let Philip disentangle himself from his hold but kept a firm grip on one of Philip’s hands as they crossed the distance. Darcy grinned at them, her eyes traveling down to their hands and back up again. Peter looked slightly pained; he was sixteen after all and Philip imaged Peter still had the illusion that his older brother didn’t have sexual urges or romantic feelings. Clearing his throat, Bruce turned the book so they could read the words on the page.

“It’s a very old prayer or blessing, meant to guard the speaker from danger. Lots of talk about demons and angels and the elements, but this part looks the most promising,” Darcy said, her finger pointing to a stanza more than half way through.

I summon today  
All power between me and evil,  
Against every cruel and merciless foe  
that may oppose my body and soul,  
Against incantations of false prophets,  
Against black laws of sorcerers,  
Against false laws of would be gods,  
Against craft of wicked Lords,  
Against spells of witches and smiths and wizards,  
Against every knowledge that corrupts man's body and soul;  
Shield me today  
Against poison, against burning,  
Against drowning, against wounding,  
So that there may come to me an abundance of reward.[1]

“It’s a song, as well.” Bruce flipped the page. “There are two different versions here. It’s even called a breastplate in one reiteration.” He tugged another book out from under the one they were looking at and opened to a ribboned bookmark. “You’d need to change it a bit, maybe customize a phrase or two, but it’s powerful. Darcy said the first line out loud and knocked over a couple stacks of books.”

“I think I’ve heard part of this before. The before me, behind me, above me section,” Clint said, peering over Phil’s shoulder. “I want to say it was in the Outer Isles, but I can’t remember for sure.”

“Wouldn’t be a surprise; we’ve seen how other writings are transmitted over the generations,” Bruce said. Philip noticed how Bruce’s hand absently rubbed a spot high on his chest, over his heart. “Darce can show you the symbol and make a sample rune for us to test.”

“Pass me a piece of vellum, Pete,” Darcy said, pointing at a pile of scrap and loose paper. Peter shuffled through and found one with enough blank space for her to write out the prayer.

“Hey, what’s this?” Peter asked, pulling another writing covered sheet to the top of the pile. “I know this one!” He started humming. “But this is different. Dead quake? Sleeper wakes?”

“Let me see.” Darcy reached for the edge and snatched it away; Peter sputtered, finally bending over her back, practically hanging off her shoulders to get a view.

“This is the original version of the kid’s song; we think it was written by someone with the gift of foreknowledge. The mage is Phil, the Hawk Clint,” Bruce explained.[2]

“That makes Darce the voice.” Peter nudged her none to gently, half pushing her off her seat. “She’s certainly got a big enough mouth.”

“Peter!” Philip admonished at the exact same time Darcy elbowed Peter in the gut.

“Oof,” he exhaled. “I was joking!”

“Actually, he may be right. If she’s a bard like Thor suggested, she easily could be the Voice,” Clint injected. “Although what the choice is, I don’t know.”

“So Clint and Phil I get,” Peter said, “but who are the rest? The dead are those shambling things, the Golems?”

“And the revenants. We’ve fought them before. Animated dead corpses,” Phil replied. Peter scrunched up his face in distaste.

“Or that guy, Barnes. Everyone thought he was dead,” Darcy said. They all looked at her. “What? It’s obvious. Dead is plural, right? So it can mean more than one person. Same with Spiders; there’s more than one person who fills that role. Peter has to be one. You always said he climbed walls like a spider, remember Phil?”

Phil stared at his sister because she was right; he’d never noticed the extra “s” on the end of the word nor had he thought of his brother’s abilities.

“Sleeper wakes … again that could be Thane Barnes. You said he seemed to wake up from the magical control so it’s not a stretch. Who else is dead that could wake or quake or shiver? Shiver sounds like cold and we certainly have cold and snow and ice up here so that doesn’t help. The new age is pretty self-explanatory. Magic is back and so are bonded couples.” Darcy didn’t pause as she patted Bruce’s hand.  “Spiders. Hmmmmmm. They weave webs, the threads alert them to movement and danger, and there’s that one that kills her mates. A black something?”

“Widow,” Peter added getting into the spirit of it. “A black widow is very poisonous.”

“Okay, a woman who is deadly? Clint’s got a number of those to pick from.” Darcy stopped for a quick breath then went on. “It’s about talents. Peter climbs walls and has that strange danger sense, so spider. A wasp has a stinger and flies. Ants are small but can carry big things. Neither of those rings any bells. The Beast is the Hulk; roar is a dead giveaway. Oh. Hawk. Quiver. Bow and arrow. That’s a bad pun.”

As Darcy rambled, she was completely oblivious to the shocked stares of the people around her or the others who wandered into the room to listen.  Singer stood in the kitchen doorway with Natasha and Jane. Andrew and Rodriguez came in from tending to the horses. Thor and Fandral came up the hallway, Jessica behind them, all of them migrating their way for the strategy meeting Clint had called.

“Scholar. That’s Jane,” Darcy declared. “She has a powerful sigh that tells me when I’m being silly. Can say so much with just one exhale.”

Jane’s eyes widened and she glanced at the others, her gaze hanging on the Asgardian prince for a moment longer than the others. Philip put that on his to-do list; find out Thor’s intentions towards Jane. He’d always considered Jane a sister as well and, royalty or not, Philip wasn’t going to let anyone break Jane’s heart.

“It could be Bruce,” Clint protested. “He studied at the university too.”

Darcy thought about it for all of a second. “Maybe. It’s singular, though, so it can’t be both of them and I’m going with the Beast as the Hulk. Let’s see; Prince who flies? We’ve got two choices, Thor and Loki. Since I don’t like Slick Loki, I’ll take Thor for that one. A lord, a gambler, hunters, and a captain. Lots of Lords around … Fury, maybe? Does hack mean chopping things up or breaking in? Gambler, gambling, games, gaming.  Hunters of what? All hunters track, so that doesn’t help at all. Captain. Captain of a ship? Captain of the Army? Captain of the Guard? _O Captain, my Captain_?”[3]

Like a punch to his gut, Philip felt the power roll off his sister and fill the room. Books trembled, a few of the onlookers gasped as the energy zinged past them. A heavy red leather bound book flew off a shelf behind them and tumbled onto the floor, falling open to an illuminated page. The first few books of a stack toppled over, the small tome on left on top flipping open and pages flapping until it settled on a map that slowly unfolded and hung down.

“Skald,” Thor said with certainty. “I’d suggest we look at what she has uncovered. They have a very useful ability to find the right information.”

Darcy glanced around, realizing the others were watching; she saw the open books and turned a happy face to Bruce. “I did that!”

“Indeed,” Bruce agreed, his answering smile full of fondness. He reached for the closest book as Philip got the other one.

“Talents.” Clint said. “Too bad we don’t know where to look for people who fit the descriptions. It would make things easier, although, I have to say, we’re doing well with people finding us.”

“Maybe that’s part of how this works,” Philip offered. “The right people at the right place at the right time. We’ll find them when we need them.”

“Or we could ask the Men of Letters,” Natasha said. “They have lists of everyone with gifts from what I hear.”

“Ask the people who are on a mission to ensure no one believes in magic? Probably not a good idea.” Jessica had a bottle of whiskey and a pitcher of wine that she sat on the one cleared off table top.

“Actually, the Men of Letters aren’t all like that.” Singer passed out mugs and glasses, a mismatched set. “There’s really two branches; those who are the academics, studying everything. They tend to stay in their monasteries, gather data and read books. That type are hide bound, rule lovers, never get out in the world. Most of ‘em are okay fellows, but some are elitists and, unfortunately, those are the ones who rise to power positions.”

“I’ve met a few of those,” Bruce said. His fingers flexed and clenched; Darcy laid a hand over his. “They’ll bite off their nose to spite their face, denying magic exists and, if they do find it, locking it away in the deepest dungeon.”

“Yeah, more than one person’s disappeared after they challenged the Head Man. He’s a piece of work, that Crowley.” Singer took the whiskey and began to fill the glasses of those who wanted some. “But there’s the other side, the ones who go out and investigate the rumors to see if any of them are true. I know a couple of boys … well, they’re men now ‘bout your age, Clint …  I could send them a message, see what they’ve heard. They’ve seen some weird shit in their lives and I can promise they won’t have any problem believing in a mage or a bard. Technically, they’re not even real Men of Letters; their grandfather was one and they’re legacies, but they choose the life of hunters instead.”

The thought of involving the Men of Letters even tangentially didn’t sit well with Philip, but the waves of discomfort that Bruce was sending out made his position clear. Bright green crawled around him, so strong Philip could see the magic without any aid. It curled up Bruce’s arms and across his quickly rising and falling chest, tight bands that twisted and turned in intricate patterns. Beside him, Clint moved, easing closer to Bruce, shielding for Peter just in case. Philip started to open his mouth to clear the room when Darcy stood and, with no hesitation, slipped her body against Bruce’s, her back to his chest, pulling his arms around her waist. The magic tendrils faded to the color of grass in spring, encompassing Darcy now, mixing with her own strands of deep red until they were bound together. A flash of color on Darcy’s wrist caught Philip’s eye, but he shelved that for later; Bruce gave Clint a nod of agreement and the tension in the room dropped.

“I think we should,” Darcy declared. “Don’t you get it? Hunters who can find people? Hunters track.”

“Damn,” Jessica muttered. “Right time. Right people.”

“Send the message, but be vague. Can you get them up here without them knowing why?” Clint made the decision.

“Aye. If I ask, they’ll come,” Singer agreed.

“I’ll get the last of the apples out,” Kevin said from the kitchen where he’d obviously been listening. “Looks like I’m making pie.”

“With that settled, can we get down to business?” Natasha asked, changing the topic to bridge the awkward silence that followed Bruce almost going berserk. “What’s the plan, Philip?”

All eyes turned his way, and Philip took the floor, Clint’s hand now on the small of his back, a supportive presence. “Right. Here’s what we know.  The sorcerer wants Darcy; he’s made three attempts to take her. His messenger said that Darcy was dangerous because she thinks too much and talks out of turn. We know that he thinks she can call Lord Rogers’ armor; we saw evidence she can back at the manor. The snowstorm is the latest feint; he’s just going to keep trying. Barnes gave us the dagger, and that just leaves three pieces. So we go on the offensive. Find these other people, bring us all together with the armor, find this son-of-a-bitch and end him before he even gets started.”

“I’m all for a good battle,” Thor said. “But do you know how to perform this feat? What I know of magic is that spells have specific details; mistake one and it doesn’t work or goes awry.”

“Like that communication spell,” Andrew tossed out. Philip glared his way, but the man, who’d insisted on accompanying Philip, just smirked back. “Right, Phil?”

“What went wrong?” Clint’s fingers stiffened against Philip’s back. “Is everyone all right at home?”

“Everything is fine. I just put a touch too much power into it, that’s all. There was never any danger.” Philip would have words with Andrew later about spilling the information; he’d had every intention of discussing the problem with Bruce and he’d have eventually told Clint.

“You talked to a grown up William in the future.” Andrew dropped that bit with a smile. “I’d say that was a complication.”

The room erupted as everyone commented at once, a babble of voices that grated on Philip’s ears. Andrew mouthed a quick ‘sorry’ even though Philip knew he wasn’t; Andrew was pressing the issue to force Philip to come clean.

“Enough.” Clint’s voice carried and everyone else settled back down. “Phil and I will talk about this later. Right now, Thor has a point. We need to know the right words and right place and right people for this to work.” After the cacophony of sound, a silence descended at that statement.

“Why don’t we just ask?” Jessica said into the quiet. “I mean, if the spell works across time, couldn’t we go back and talk to Timothy Dugan?”

Philip started to consider the possibility, but Clint cut off the discussion. “No. We don’t know how much power that would take or if it would even work at all. I’m not risking Philip’s life on a wild goose chase.”

“I think I can make that decision for myself,” Philip shot back, anger rising at Clint’s preemptive decision.

“Didn’t you have to have a connection with the person to make it work?” Andrew asked. “Clint and Darcy worked because of your bonds with them. That’s not true for Dugan, so it’s sort of a moot point.”

 “Guys, we don’t have to talk to Dugan,” Darcy broke in. “We can just ask this Barnes guy. He seems to know what the boss is thinking.”

“Same problem there, Darce,” Peter piped up. “No bond.”

“Not exactly true,” Natasha said. “If you can cast the spell on someone who does have a connection …”

“It might work,” Clint agreed. Warm energy spread from Clint’s hand across Philip’s skin, and Philip felt the apology in Clint’s words. Didn’t mean he wasn’t still a bit upset, but Clint was making an overture.

“I’d appreciate some time with Bruce to go over the spell and think about how to make it more effective.” The time delay was Philip’s counter offer.  “And we’d need to think of exactly what we want to know.”

“The morning then.” Clint stroked his thumb in the curve of Philip’s back, their negotiations closed.

 “Um, excuse me.” Jane coughed and then cleared her throat as she garnered everyone’s attention.  “I think we should consider this as part of an answer.” She slid the unfolded map across the desk, the one from the book that Darcy’s magic had shaken loose. “It’s a map of Lake Caldera with routes up the mountain. And look what it says.”

Philip put his hands on the desk to bend over and get closer to see the spidery script. “Here lies the final resting place of Lord Stephen Rogers, the once and future paladin.” The phrase was printed just above a smaller detailed map of the lake, one that included a side view of the depth of the water. If the drawing was right, a small outcropping jutted over the lake; beneath it, in a very deep section, was a small X.

“What is this book?” He flipped it closed to look at the writing on the spine. “It’s not even in the old tongue, but something else entirely. I don’t recognize any of the words.”

Bruce had a turn, but he shrugged, unfamiliar with the language. Singer shook his head. “I don’t know that I’ve ever seen this book before; could be one I bought in a lot and haven’t gotten around to cataloguing yet. Sometimes I pick up whole boxes of books just to get one.”

“May I?” Fandral asked. Gingerly, he looked over the pages, turning a few. “I have seen this writing; we have some collections in this script. I remember because this word – roman – and this one here – chevalier – were retained in the translations.  Here, see the front piece? I believe this word is troubadour which would make these songs and romances about knights and chivalry.”

“A map that shows Rogers’ fall in the middle of songs about love?” Peter asked. “That makes perfect sense.”

“Lord Rogers was a knight, Peter, and is often used as the finest example of chivalric ideals,” Philip informed him. “I would hazard a guess that one of the songs in here is about him, if not more. And it’s not the first time I’ve seen the phrase once and future paladin to describe him, although it’s an old moniker that’s fallen out of use in the last few generations. Many believed that Rogers would come again when the Midlands needed him. Not having a body to bury helped fuel that idea.”

“Knights, chivalry, that’s all and well, but I’ve met Barnes and so have you, Philip. Those men were soldiers not romantic ideals. We’re dealing with real life here,” Clint chided his husband. “I know we grew up on the tales, but we have to keep that in sight.”

“The Soldier shivers.” Darcy tipped her head as she thought. “I’ve never thought of Lord Rogers as a soldier before.”

“Okay, I give up. What’s this map have to do with calling the armor?” Peter asked. “I’m drawing a blank here.”

“It’s where we need to go to all the armor.” Darcy sighed. “Of course it is. And I bet it’s going to be a long, cold trip in the freezing snow, isn’t it? Tell me we can ride all the way there and don’t have to break out the mountain climbing equipment. I’m not cut out for that sort of journey.”

“Cold, yes. Climbing pitons, no. We can ride.” Bruce studied the map that Fandral had reopened.

“We still don’t know a spell though …” Jessica stopped halfway through her thought. “The other book that fell open. What’s in it?”

Philip nabbed it first. “It’s a song.” He passed it to Darcy who held the book so Bruce could see over her shoulder.

“I’ve never heard of it,” Bruce admitted.  As Darcy opened her mouth, Bruce warned, “Don’t read it out loud. Either of you. I’d like to sleep under a roof tonight. Might be the last time in a while.”

“This is so … depressing? It’s about leaving, maybe even dying. Shouldn’t it be like ‘come home to me’?” Peter asked, ducking his head under Darcy’s arm to get a good look.

“Thank you Peter for that insight,” Philip tugged Peter back by his elbow. “Since you’re an expert now on magical spells, maybe you can start working on the protection runes. We have a lot to get done in a short time.”

“Um, you don’t really want me to …” Peter grumbled. “Oh, sarcasm. I get it. Fine, I’ll just go eat since I’m hungry and there’s food. You guys ignore me. You always do.”

Philip sighed to himself as Peter wandered off towards the kitchen; Peter pushed, and Philip always snapped back. He needed to stop that.. “Alright, let’s make plans.”

* * *

 

“Philip? Can I have a moment?” Bruce waited until they were finished eating, when most of the people were wandering off to various parts of the large rambling house and outer areas to speak. Or maybe he was building up his courage for the conversation he knew they needed to have. His nerves were still jangled from his earlier close call, when he’d almost changed just thinking about the Men of Letters. If Darcy hadn’t been there, he would have done some damage, perhaps hurt someone. Since Philip had told them where to meet the others and they’d left the lodge, Bruce had been living in blessed silence, able to turn off the emotions that usually threatened to overwhelm him. Darcy was his touchstone, the anchor that kept him on an even keel; she’d done that today, not just with her touch but the silent declaration she’d made by standing with him, literally, in the face of his berserker’s rage.

“Of course,” Philip replied. He’d been ready to leave the room with Clint; now he nodded at his husband and Clint gave Bruce a quick smile of support.

“Do you mind if we go outside?” Bruce led the way to the front door and out onto the porch. “Too many people in there.”

The weather had rebounded, the temperature still cool, but not as icy as it had been the last few days. Hunching his shoulders into his vest, Bruce leaned against a stone wall, relieved when Philip did the same beside him rather than face him directly. This wasn’t going to be easy.

“I swear Singer’s house just grows rooms when needed. I didn’t even know there was a second guest wing,” Philip joked to lighten the mood. “I’m glad you asked, though. There’s some things I need to say.”

“Let me go first. I’ve been practicing in my head and if I don’t get this out now I might not ever say it.” Bruce sucked in a breath to ease the tightness in his throat. “I know you weren’t expecting this; hell, I wasn’t either. Darcy … she’s a force of nature. Comes in like a whirlwind and upends all your plans.”

“That’s an apt description,” Philip agreed.

“And I know that she’s Fury’s heir and he has plans. Maria’s going to stay the head of his forces, Peter’s going to university and Darcy’s going to marry for political advantage. That lets me out of the equation; I can bring nothing to the table but a tragic backstory which, I’m pretty sure, wouldn’t impress Fury.” Bruce scuffed his feet along the grout lines between the porch stones. “The bond, however, has a mind of its own and I don’t want to fight it. She’s too good for me, that’s a fact, but, if you’ll give us your approval, I want to marry her as soon as possible, before we go to Lake Caldera if we can fit it in. I need … I want to make the commitment to her, for her.”

“You sell yourself short, Bruce.” Philip put a hand on Bruce’s arm and he could feel the energy that seeped into him, Philip’s magic surrounding him, pulling him into the grand design. “Nick will probably rail for a bit, toss out a few choice words, but his goal has always been to do whatever he has to in order to protect his people, family especially. And there’s no one better to keep Darcy safe than you, even if that means she’s right in the middle of the action, which she would have been anyway because Darcy is Darcy. You have my blessing; there’s not another clerk in this area, but a Lord can perform ceremonies for his holders. Clint will be happy to do it.”

“Protect her. That’s not going to be easy,” Bruce chuckled because it was true. “She’s … amazing and powerful. She’s already changed me and I can’t imagine going back to the way I was before.”

“That’s my sister,” Philip said with a fond smile then his face turned serious. “I saw the tattoo on her wrist.”

Squeezing his eyes shut, Bruce took a moment to think about how to answer. The best way, he decided, was to start at the beginning. “My father was a renowned scholar who didn’t believe that talents existed. Mental projection, he argued, of normal human abilities.”

“The fairytale hypothesis. I know people who espouse that theory.”

“My father came up with it. He was lauded by the academic community, feasts were thrown in his honor, and he was invited to court to speak before the king.” Bruce snorted at the irony of it all. “Then I was born with the gift of empathy, and it manifested when I was two months old, so strong that I screamed for days on end. He had two options; change his theory or believe I was a monster and that my mother was a liar.”

“Gods. The Men of Letters. He gave you over to them?” Philip asked.

“First he tried to hide me, then he thought he could beat it out of me. My mother eventually abandoned me to his ‘treatments’ because she was afraid of him. The Men of Letters came when I was seven and took me away.” Bruce shrugged it off, those years in a small, cold, stone room with no bed but straw and darkness to hide in. “I learned to tell them what they wanted to hear and answer their questions the right way. And I learned how to pretend I didn’t feel every bit of hatred they all had for me.” He gave a sharp laugh. “Actually, I owe them in a twisted way. Once I turned into a model of correction, they educated me and sponsored me at university where I studied energy dynamics. The way a ball hits a stack of blocks, why the harder it’s thrown, the harder it hits. It wasn’t a reach to move into the energy produced by running water. To posit a kind of energy among the movement of the stars in heaven.”

“The whole while you were reading about magic.” Philip understood. Bruce knew he would.

“Read everything I could get my hands on, books no one had checked out of the library in ages, thick with dust. Visited all the rare book dealers in town. Made trips to other collections. It was in a book binder’s shop in the Capitol that I found this little blue book, just the size of your palm, waiting to be reglued. Cracked pages, half the writing faded to the point of being illegible. It was a research journal by a woman named Elizabeth Ross who believed that there were elements all around us which, when they decayed, emitted the energy that created talents and gifts. The basic building block of magic, why we each see it differently. I knew I had stumbled upon something when I realized it had a spell guarding the last few pages, keeping preserved the story of an experiment she tried. I hid it carefully, reading it only in seclusion, by the light of the moon.”

“The experiment. You tried to replicate it.” Philip’s voice was gentle, no censure in his tone. “I’d have been tempted to do the same.”

“They found out, kicked me out of school. I went back late that night and did the spell. And you know the rest of the story. The Men of Letters have hounded me ever since to put me back in a cell.” He tugged up his vest and his shirt revealing the tattoo on his stomach. “The berserker. He’s me. The me that could fight back and save myself. And now he’s part of Darcy too, but mediated by her magic. He likes her. No, he loves her and would die for her and he shared part of his invulnerability with her as a bonding mark.”

“And she gave you something in return?” Philip asked. Bruce started. “I am bonded, you know. Only one of two other people who can tell you what it’s like. Clint’s given me … a home. Confidence in myself. Control over the magic.”

“It’s like a wall went up when she put the protection rune on my skin. If I focus, I can tell what you’re feeling, but it’s not battering at my head. Everyone but Darcy’s on the other side of the barrier and I’ve never known quiet like this. And the berserker is calmer, more willing to listen to reason. Today, just her touch …”

“Do you want to go to the stones for your bonding ritual?” Philip asked. “We can make plans to swing by on our way to the lake.”

“No.” Bruce shook his head. “That doesn’t feel right. It’s like I’ll know the right time and place and that’s not it. The stones were yours.”

“Good enough.” Philip clapped him on the back. “So just a wedding tomorrow. Darcy’s never going to let me forget she got married in pants.”

“I’m never going to forget her in those pants,” slipped out before Bruce thought about it; he blushed and ducked his head.

“Ah, yes, look, the less I know about that …” Philip choked out. “It’s just … awkward.”

“She says the same about you and Clint,” Bruce couldn’t help but add.

“True. And speaking of Clint, he’s probably waiting inside.” Philip pushed up and paused, looking straight at Bruce. “I don’t have that many people I consider friends. For Darcy to end up with one of them? That’s the best scenario I could imagine.”  He headed back into the house, leaving Bruce to his own thoughts which, not unexpectedly, circled back around to the dark haired woman who was changing his life.

* * *

 

Darcy wandered out the kitchen door, leaving the last few bits of dishes to be stacked and readied to return to the Ferguson family. The stew had been hearty if simple, making the most of early winter vegetables and a beef broth. The heavy brown bread had been fresh and still warm; Darcy was full and that was a good feeling.  Halfway avoiding Bruce and Philip which, if someone were to ask Darcy was a very mature thing to do since they were off having their talk, she thought she’d find Jane and talk over the plans, get her impressions.

On a night as clear as this one, so far away from a city, Jane would find the best place to star gaze, her favorite pastime. As a little girl, Jane had crawled out on the rooftop of her parent’s home; once she’d come to Tarian Castle, she’d found the highest turret, dragged Darcy and a bunch of blankets and slept out under the open sky many a night. Darcy’s eye caught the edge of Jane’s skirt on the log pile beside the smithy.

“I’ve read that Asgardians believe their home was once out there, in the black spaces between the stars,” Jane said as Darcy walked to where her friend sat wrapped in a blanket. “A tree, they believed, connected a whole realm of worlds. Personally, I think it’s a creation myth to explain the differences between peoples.”

“You know what I think.” Darcy lowered herself down beside Jane; they’d had this conversation many times before. Only the stories about the heavens changed. “A bunch of candles in the gods’ study and we’re in a terrarium, a civilization for entertainment. They tap on the glass and we scurry away.”

“You really think I’m the scholar in that prophecy?” Jane asked. “Because I’m not okay with that idea. You’re the one who always wants to be in the middle of the action; I’m perfectly happy in my study with my books.”

“I don’t know exactly how it works, but, yes, I think that’s you,” Darcy said. She’d been trying not to think about it, that what she had with Bruce was Fate making decisions for her.

“The Voice gives us a choice, right? I looked the poem over. Definitely children’s meter and rhyme. Very simplistic structure to make remembering easier.” Jane did that, took everything apart to understand it. “So we have options. We can get on our horses and ride back to the castle; Nick and Maria are there.”

“And those golem things keep coming after me, taking people we know?” Darcy didn’t see that as a real possibility. “Maybe you and Peter should go, though. Maria will be livid that we only sent a short message; you could update her on the situation.”

“Oh, no, I’m not falling for that. You have to explain Bruce and your magic. There is no way I’m going to be the bearer of that news.” Jane nudged Darcy’s shoulder. “You’re on your own.”

“It was worth a try.” They laughed together, companionable as only two old friends can be.

“Am I interrupting?” Thor’s voice was soft. “I thought to take a walk and heard your voices.”

“No, please, come, sit,” Darcy motioned to the logs on the other side of Jane. “We were just talking of Asgardian creation myths about the heavens.”

“Ah, yes. The great tree of Yggdrasil and the nine realms. ‘Tis not a myth, but a truth so long gone that it has become naught but shadows. Many eons ago, in the reign of Odin, the first of that name, before Asgard was on this world, there was a great battle, one that lit the stars afire and burned the tree to its roots. Whole worlds were lost in the face of unrelenting evil, one so systematic that nothing could stand against it. The very right hand of Death himself joined forces with Knowledge personified.  Valhalla was emptied, Hel cleared of the lost souls, and Jotunheim cracked straight through. The heavens collapsed and all that survived retreated here.”

“The battle with the Red Sorcerer,” Jane said. “Asgard fought alongside us, reluctant allies.”

“Long before that,” Thor corrected. “Back when there were bridges between the worlds, rainbow colored gateways to travel great distances.  When our magic was strong, elves and dwarves had their own kingdoms, and humans spread across the earth between us.” Thor sighed and turned his eyes from the heavens to study Jane’s face. She was focused on the twinkling light, gazing intently, a look that Darcy knew well, Jane deep in thought.

“There is a book in the archives that talks of a giant tree and deep well.[4] The translation is terrible with broken sentences that make it almost impossible to read, but the word that I remember the most is wyrð.[5] Means to become or bring about, destiny or fate, but on a very personal level. How we can affect the very fabric of history by our actions and yet be part of something bigger than ourselves.”

“Worth? Or weird?” Darcy asked because the way Jane pronounced the term she couldn’t be sure.

“Both, actually. If we look at the evolution of the word, it’s fascinating how fate becomes weird, strange, odd as well as having value. But the really interesting thing is how the author of the book argues wyrð connections to the concept of space and time. We are where we are because we are fated to be so by the choices we make. Our choices are the connective tissue of the universe,” Darcy explained.

“Aye, the story goes that there were three wells at the feet of Yggdrasil; one of them was urðrbrunnr,[6]the well of fate. My ancestors held court in its garden, a place of great beauty.” A softness crept into Thor’s blue eyes, a curl of lips into a sweet smile, as he spoke, taken entirely by Jane’s smile.

_Drink to me with your eyes as I promise with mine_.[7]

The words came unbidden into Darcy’s head, stirred by the very real emotions flowing around her, and lightning flashed in the distance, brief and white. As Thor leaned towards Jane, flickers of electricity moved along his skin, arching across the space, tickling the light that surrounded Jane, the glow of the stars themselves that pulsed with life and reached back for Thor.

“Whoa.” Darcy shifted back and the log beneath her moved. “I mean, not very stable a seat is it?” she covered.

“But it’s the best view,” Jane said with a satisfied sigh.

“Indeed,” Thor agreed completely caught up in Jane.

“And on that note,” Darcy muttered under her breath, slipping down and landing in a puddle of melting snow, dirty water oozing up her boots. “Oh, look, there’s Fandral. I want to ask him about the music we found, see if he’ll play the two versions so I can hear the difference. Don’t let Jane stay out too long; she’ll keep stargazing until her nose turns blue,” she ordered Thor, not staying around to hear if he even answered.

Fandral was actually crossing the yard, coming from the stables back to the house; Darcy caught up to him in front of the smithy. “Pretend to be talking about something important,” she whispered, “as we slowly walk away.”

With a quick glance the direction Darcy came from, Fandral smiled and offered his arm. “I’d be delighted, Milady,” he said, loud enough for his voice to carry. “Shall we?”

“Thanks. That was getting awkward. I wish we could just say ‘going to leave you alone so you can stare lovingly into each other’s eyes, now kiss’ but society demands we not talk about things like that,” Darcy explained.

“Oh, that is perfect,” Fandral said as he laughed out loud. “Although, I doubt Thor will do more than pine; he respects the Lady Jane very highly and I’m afraid he’s not the best at picking up on signals from the fairer sex.”

“And Jane’s the worst at sending them. She’ll talk about science all night.” Walking through the mud, Darcy was very happy to not have a skirt to drag across the ground. She thought of the magic she’d seen weaving around the two, lightning in a night sky, and she added, “Still I think we don’t have to worry. Something tells me they’ll manage just fine on their own.”

Sharp eyes missed nothing; Fandral cocked an eyebrow her way as they stopped on the back porch steps. “Skald’s often see what others miss,” he said, serious now. “I will trust your insight.”

Anger, a heat at the back of her neck, hairs standing on end. Darcy swallowed as the wall of emotion engulfed her. “That will make you the only one who does,” she tried to joke, but the need to get him inside was too strong. “I think I will stay out here for a few more minutes; I believe Bruce said something about checking on the saddle packs. He should be out shortly.”

He knew it was a lie, but Darcy hoped he merely thought she was looking for a night time tryst. “As you wish, Milady,” he accepted the dismissal gracefully, slipping his arm from where he was holding hers. “Have a good evening.”

She didn’t exhale until he closed the door behind him and then she spun and strode around the porch to the dark shadows of the side, knowing who she’d find there. Seething, his big form shaking with rage, the Hulk clenched his fists and blew out a frustrated breath.

“He touched you,” the Hulk growled. “You are mine.”

“Oh, really?” Darcy planted her feet and looked up into those brown eyes, Bruce’s eyes, and knew this was the moment she’d been expecting. “Looks like you and I have to have a little heart-to-heart talk, buddy. Let’s go.”

 

[1] This prayer is commonly known as St. Patrick’s Breastplate. While often ascribed to St. Patrick, it is actually a very old pagan blessing that was revised and reused by the Christian church when they moved into Ireland. Sometimes known as St. Bridgette’s prayer as well.

[2] The full version of the song was in the first story “Bonds of Old” and is my own invention. Here it is in its entirety:

 

The Dead quake, the Hawk quivers,

The Sleeper wakes, and the Soldier shivers.

Then comes the Mage to bring a new age.

 

The Spiders bite, the Wasp stings,

The Ant fights, and the Stones sing.

Then comes the Voice to give us all choice.

 

The Beast roars, the Scholar sighs,

The Falcon soars, and the Prince flies.

Then two becomes three to set him free.

The Lord hacks, the Gambler deals,

The Hunters track, and the Captain kneels.

Then stories will be told of bonds new and old.

[3] Walt Whitman’s famous poem “O Captain, My Captain” probably most well-known from the movie Dead Poet’s Society. It’s actually an extended metaphor about the death of Abraham Lincoln.

[4] Paul Bauschatz’s _The Well and the Tree_. Excellent book about the Norse concept of space and time. Dense going though.

[5] The Old English term Wyrð is a very complex word/idea. Old Norse texts define it as destiny, but that modern term doesn’t do it justice. We tend to think of destiny as being preordained (thank you Martin Luther) but for an Anglo-Saxon or Norseman it was a very personal/individual concept. The symbol ð is called an “eth” and the pronunciation would be close to “weirthd” which is why Darcy is confused.

[6] This would sound very similar to Wyrð + brun since the “wha” and “uh” are close. So weirth and urth.

[7] Ben Jonson’s “To Celia” better known as “Drink to me only with thine eyes”. I figured Thor needed something old-fashioned and very masculine.


	11. Both. Both are Good.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I am the best parts of him. I am passion and drive and strength. I am why he survives, the thing that keeps him safe. I don’t hesitate, don’t negotiate, don’t wait and see. I know what I want and I am not afraid to give it voice or take the chance.”
> 
> “You’ve protected him all these years,” she said, gazing into those intensely dark eyes. “And you’re going to protect me. You are part of him, just like you’re part of me now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little interlude before the rush to the end starts. Some warmth before the ice and snow of the mountains. :)

“You can put me down now,” Darcy insisted.

As she’d picked her way across the snowy courtyard, the Hulk had scooped her up and tossed her over his shoulder, uncaring of the mud he splashed through on the way to the stables. They’d wound up in the tack room, saddles hanging on the walls, a long table in the middle of the room, a fire lit in the main hearth to help heat the whole building. Andrew must have already been here, currying the horses and warming up the stalls and the small groom’s room. The horses were doubled up in the spaces, body heat helping as the temperature dropped outside.

The Hulk sat her down on the table, more gently than his frustrated huff would lead anyone to expect, and stepped back. He was angry, and Darcy could sense it pulsing down the connection. The tattoo on her arm expanded onto the back of her hand, a sign of the Hulk’s state of mind. Still, they needed to have this conversation; as very sexy as she found this sort of possessive behavior, she was going to nip it in the bud, make sure he understood, before it got out of hand.

“Okay, Big Guy, here’s how this is going to work. You don’t own me; I don’t belong to anyone but me.” She saw him tense and open his mouth, his shoulders rising.  “That does not mean that I am going to flirt with other men or take other lovers; my promise is my bond and I’m going to swear in front of everyone that I’m tying myself to Bruce. But I am going to hug my brother or take an offered arm of a gentleman like Fandral, and you are going to deal with it.

“Mine.” The one word spoke volumes about the Hulk’s feelings, and it rumbled through Darcy’s body, setting a little fire in her gut. Being claimed was an appealing notion, as long as it was on her terms. That’s what she was trying to explain. “I won’t let them hurt you.”

“And I agree with that.” This, Darcy felt, was firm ground. “I’m all for appropriate responses. Fandral helping me across the mud? You can grumble at him but no smashing. One of those types who like to grab boobs and ass when he passes in a courtly dance? If I don’t slam his hand in a door first … not that I’ve done that more than twice, mind you … I don’t mind some mysterious bruises showing up as long as he’s alive and breathing. Someone tries the slip in my room trick to get laid? After I knee him in the balls, you can throw him back to his family with the fear of God put in him. Worse than that? Have at them. I’m not squeamish. Anyone tries to force me, he deserves what he’s got coming.”

“You don’t understand what I am, do you?” he replied, leaning in, his hands on either side of her legs where they swung off the edge of the table. “You’re asking for control, and I don’t do that.”

“That’s what I’m here for, don’t worry.” She patted his arm, marveling at the hard muscles under her fingers. Bruce was lean, no fat, but the Hulk was much more cut, body defined and toned in a way that could only be magical. “I know what you believe you are, but I happen to disagree that you can’t control yourself. You are right now, you know; you haven’t taken me, haven’t touched me even though you want to.”

“I don’t force women.” His eyes glowed with the truth of that statement. “I want, yes, desire, indeed. I burn with a need to be inside of you, to taste your skin, to hear the catch in your voice when you hit the peak and cry my name. But I will only act upon it if you want me too.”

Each word was like a touch, syllables that made her shiver. To be wanted this way, not because she was Fury’s heir or rich or brought power to the relationship, but just for herself. The Hulk didn’t care for any of that; he wanted to protect her because he cared for her.

“Wait.” She put a hand on his chest; so much stronger than her, he was the one holding himself back. “There’s still one issue. Bruce. You’ve been clear that you’re not Bruce. If that’s true, then sex with you would be cheating.”

He knew what she wanted from him; green lines twirled up his neck and onto his cheek, his face flushing. “I. Am. Not. Bruce. Bruce is weak, hiding in the woods, nose buried in those musty old books. He runs away, cowers in corners, lets his desires slip away. I am nothing like him.”

“Why then do we share the same bond? The same magic?” She wrapped a hand around the hard jaw, watched as their tattoos blended together on the angles of his face.

Fighting it, he closed his eyes, hands clenching so hard she could hear the wood crack beneath his palms. “I am the best parts of him. I am passion and drive and strength. I am why he survives, the thing that keeps him safe. I don’t hesitate, don’t negotiate, don’t wait and see. I know what I want and I am not afraid to give it voice or take the chance.”

“You’ve protected him all these years,” she said, gazing into those intensely dark eyes. “And you’re going to protect me. You are part of him, just like you’re part of me now.”

With a long exhale, his face relaxed and he stood up to his full height, heated gaze dropping down her body, along the curves of her breasts. One hand slipped under her calf and levered her leg up; with a quick tug he tossed her boot over by the hearth. Then he did the same with the other as a sensual smile spread across his face. “Oh, I’m going to be more than a part of you. Bruce is tentative, slow, careful … I, on the other hand, prefer to hear you scream my name and beg for more.”

Heat bloomed between her legs, a throbbing ache that radiated up her spine. Clenching her muscles, she couldn’t stop the little moan that slipped out. “We didn’t lock the door and there are people …”

Unbuckling her belt with his big hands, he opened her vest, caught the edge of her shirt and ran one palm up to cup her breast through the binder. “You wear far too many clothes,” he said, voice like the rumble of a lion. “Not that I’m complaining about the pants. Your ass is very fine and distracting; I like thinking about tipping you over a table, pulling your legs apart and having you right there.” His other hand worked on the laces, the heel of his palm absently brushing close enough to set off tremors and make her wiggle in anticipation. “Riding with you in front, that luscious little cleft rubbing up and down, I kept thinking if you had a skirt on, I could lift the hem and settle you right on my cock, bend you forward and fuck you in time to the motion.”

“Oh.” A little breath burst from her lips, the image far too hot for her to handle. “That’s …” For once, words failed her.

He leaned down, brought his lips to her ears and whispered, “Put your arms around my neck.” No hesitation, she linked her fingers at his nape. With a hand on either hip, he dipped his fingers under her waistband and, lifting her with ease, divested her of the pants, tossing them over a nearby saddle.

“Do you want me?” was his second quiet question.

“Yes,” she murmured in reply, closing her eyes and tilting her head back for the expected kiss.

Instead, his hands pulled her forward to the very edge then pressed her back onto the table until she was lying down. Folding her vest open, he gathered the material of her shirt and slid it up, baring her stomach to his hungry gaze. His warm breath made her skin tingle and still he didn’t kiss her, just dragged the tip of his nose along the curve of her belly as he eased down to the ground, onto his knees. He parted her legs, hands cupping her ass so his thumbs could part her folds, opening her to his exhale that blew across the sensitive skin.

“Gods,” she groaned as the air caused little spikes of heat to curl inside of her. Eyes flew open as he licked along the edge of the nub and back down the other side, and she saw him watching her. He did it again, sucking it in hard before he lifted his head up and dragged the tip of his tongue along his upper lip and teeth.

“I’ll find your weakness,” he all but purred, “and use it until you fall apart.”

She doubted it would take long; he set to work with his mouth and his thumbs, pressing and licking and sucking until she was writhing on the table, begging for release.  Every little jump or jerk and he’d ruthlessly take advantage of the spot, hard strokes and demanding tongue taking her right up to the edge of an orgasm then pulling away, leaving her gasping. As different as night and day from Bruce, the Hulk demanded, gave no quarter. When she would squirm, trying to close her thighs to alleviate the ache, he linked his arms under her knees, hands moving to her belly, and trapped her open to his advances. All his focus was on her, and that shouldn’t have surprised her, not really. He’d admitted to being the wildness of Bruce and fierce possession was a very human trait.

“Please,” she begged. When his tongue pressed deep inside her, his thumbs massaging her clit in tight little circles, her world narrowed to his brown hair between her legs, her hands holding tight to his curls, and the quickening pulses that swamped all other senses.  “I need … please.”

In one smooth motion, his finger was inside, thrusting in and out as he literally suckled her clit with the same rhythm. The tension in her spooled in on itself and then burst outward, rolling up her body as she bowed her back and cried out. Half dressed … he was fully clothed she realized as she blinked her way back to awareness … and spread out like a buffet on a table, she had absolutely no remorse, a warm lethargy spreading down her legs and arms.

He stood, his finger disappearing between his lips as he sucked the taste of her into his mouth. “That’s just the beginning,” he promised, picking up her ankles in his palms and wrapping her legs around his waist. “I’ve got plans to conquer your breasts and that smart little mouth and breach your walls until you’re completely spent. I’m much better at this than he is.”

“Oh, no, this is not a competition.” She couldn’t muster up the strength to do more than let him scoop her up, his arms across her back. “I thoroughly enjoy fast and hard as well as slow and easy, so you can stop that right now. And breach my walls? Really? I’m not a castle to be taken.” 

“I’m not a man of words.” He settled her against his straining erection and she wiggled until he gritted his teeth and clamped down on her hips. “I am crude, not some court poet. And I’d already used fuck so that’s all I could come up with. You’re the one with the flowery terms.”

“Oh, I’ve read so many. Dip in my maidenly garden. Slip between the grass. Part my blissful folds. I know! Walk the paths of pleasure.” She giggled at his wince. “Please. I’ll take crude and honest over that overblown blather any day. Now are you going to fuck me or not?”

With ease, he flipped her around, and sat her on her feet, facing the table. His hands covered hers and placed them flat on the table top. Before she realized what he was doing, he was pulling her back onto his freed cock, his knees between her legs.

“This is how I’d do it on horseback,” he said in her ear, one hand splayed just under her binder to keep her upright, the other at the juncture of hip and thigh. She was still boneless from her release, her body easily accepting the thick cock, the angle pressing his head right up against the tangle of nerves still sensitive with aftershocks. “Now, after I take you for a ride and you fly apart again for me, then I’m going to lay you out with nothing on but your glorious skin and I’m going to pay attention to those magnificent breasts, one at a time. I bet I can make you come a third time with just by sucking on your nipples.”

_Your touch on me, firm, protective, searching me out, your strong tongue and slender fingers, reaching where I had been waiting years for you. **[1]**_

His words mingled with the words in Darcy’s head, her pleasure resonating with the magic flaring to life. Bracing herself as he surged into her, rolling his hips in powerful strokes, she dropped her head, her hair hanging down, and let the words play out.

“You were made for me, Darcy Lewis, a perfect fit. Feel the way you take me whole, your body wet and ready for me.” He looped an arm around her, anchoring her with his strength, leaning along the length of her back.

“ _This is the coming the other coming brought us to the edge of_ …”[2] The words made no sense, but neither did anything but this man, this primal rawness held so tightly in check as he curled around her, sank inside of her, shared his energy with her. Rage and battle and pure power turned to quivering muscles and short breaths, intent on her pleasure. _By knowing him, I get to know the purity of the animal which mates for life_ ; the phrase tumbled into her mind as she saw the green spreading down his arm and watched the tattoo writhe on their joined fingers.

She turned her head so he could kiss her, press open her lips and swipe his tongue into the welcoming interior. He moved his hand until he cradled her neck, fingers buried in her curls, and she closed the circle as he bent her back, taking her free hand off the table and reaching for his cheek to pull him closer. Fingertips touched skin and the power exploded, whole poems bursting fully formed into her mind and onto her tongue.

_We are entering, deeper and deeper, gaze by gaze_

She wasn’t sure is she was speaking or if she was living the verse. The Hulk’s thrusts grew erratic and he tossed his head back, howling his own orgasm. Cradling her close, he pressed deep as he came, flooding her with his seed; a fierce satisfaction overwhelmed her and she clung to him even as her hand burned on his skin, an answering echo to his hand on her waist. The third mark, cementing the bond.

_This place beyond the other places, beyond the body itself, we are making love._

Rough fingers stroked her clit, and she shuddered in her own climax, her shout close behind his. Surrendering to the waves, she sagged into him, the two of them still intimately joined, her hand slipping away from his cheek to break the connection.

“Mine,” he murmured into the soft skin at the nape of her neck. “You’ve given yourself to me.”

“Both of you. All of you.” Post-orgasmic bliss made her brain fuzzy. “ _I lay my head to rest and lay at your feet the words I have spoken_ …”

The world turned upside down, the walls expanded and contracted, the sun rose and the night fell. Ropes of green and cranberry wrapped around their bodies and suspended them there. The fire blazed and the night sky reversed to be the floor they stood on, stars between their toes. The braid of two colors uncoiled and darted out the door, alive and snaking through the compound. In the span of three heartbeats, Darcy saw the road up the mountain, blinding snow, an expanse of ice, and a dark cave. Philip reaching for her as freezing water closed above her, pale white skin and startling blue eyes, silver armor with yellow and green etching, and a fire that blazed with green flames.

“Darcy? You’re cold.” The Hulk’s voice brought her back slamming into her body. He lifted her gently, scooping her up and taking her closer to the fire. “Are you hurt?”

“N-n-n-no,” she chattered. “I’m fine. I think we might have started the bonding ritual though. Me and my big mouth.”

“I like your mouth,” the Hulk joked.

“If that’s a request, you’ll have to wait a bit. Recovery time, right?” She curled around to look at him and her eyes widened. A band of triskelions ran around his neck, mimicking a heavy torc that parted only at the base of his throat, a mixture of both of their colors in a repeating pattern of threes. He laid his fingers on her neck, tracing as he went, and she could feel the magic move under her skin, knew that she had a companion of his. “Philip is not going to like this development.”

“Philip has given Bruce his blessing for us to get married tomorrow before we leave.” Hulk paused and looked into her eyes. “That is, if you agree.”

“Really? You have to ask? Which, I’m very grateful for by the way, that you didn’t just assume and all, even if my answer was foregone conclusion.” Confusing, she knew, but true. Sovereignty. A girl needed options.   “Although we might bring the house down. Literally.”

“I can already do that.” His hand that had been rubbing warmth into her arms changed to a slower stroke over the bare skin. “And about that recovery time? I did mention that I’m not like Bruce? One of the benefits of the berserker magic … fast healing.”  He shifted her and she felt the semi-aroused cock against her thigh. “Your perfect breasts still need my attention and I’m going to make you come at least four times tonight.”

“Not a competition,” she reminded him even as he settled down onto the chair by the fireplace and began arranging her to his liking.

“Of course it is,“ he untied her binder to free her breasts. “He makes you come, and I make you come four times as often. Sounds like an appropriate response to me.”

Darcy gave an overly dramatic sigh. “You are going to be the death of me.”

“Death by orgasm? That’s a way to go. In bed with my beloved screaming my name.” He grinned and cradled the curve of her fullness in the palm of his hands. “You, Darcy Lewis, are worth dying for.”

* * *

 

Clint paused, hand on the door knob, half worried of his reception on the other side. He’d been out checking on the watch; Singer’s compound had numerous fortifications including magical wards on the buildings, but Clint still walked the perimeter with Natasha by his side. The act was comforting because it was so familiar; they’d made a habit of it during their days as mercenaries. Despite her outward calm, Natasha was still unsettled from her last meeting with Barnes. Walking together, no words spoken, was Clint’s way to offer solace. She’d talk when she was ready.

He shouldn’t have overridden Philip earlier in front of everyone. What he should have done was wait until they were alone to talk about trying to contact Barnes through magical means, take the time to explain his objections to the plan. It wasn’t that he thought Philip couldn’t do it; no, he was more worried about Philip draining or hurting himself. There wasn’t enough time to prepare the spell and the last thing they needed was their mage out of commission right before they left for the mountains. Philip would have understood that, Clint was sure, if only he hadn’t gainsaid his husband at a meeting with their thanes and his family.

Taking a deep breath, he entered the room, half-expecting Philip to already be in bed asleep.  The room was dark but for some embers in the grate, a warm glow that cast shadows on the room. Sitting in the chair in the corner, Philip looked up from where he’d been sitting with his feet bare, his shirt untucked, jacket and vest hung over the back.

“Shut the door,” Philip ordered, voice husky and low.

“Philip, I’m sorry.” Clint pushed the door closed and readied his explanation. “I should have …”

“Lock it.” Philip didn’t move, just kept the same even tone.

“Phil. Are you angry? Or …” A cold knot tightened in Clint’s chest. Loki had tried to take Clint and Phil before; had he succeeded? Was Philip no longer his own man?

Leaning forward, directly into the light, Philip’s face came into relief, eyes hooded with lust, lips turned up at the corners. “I’m fine, Lord Barton. And I don’t believe I gave you permission to speak. Now, take off your clothes.”

Ah, Clint understood this mood. A need to take control, to balance what had to be done with what he wanted to do. He certainly didn’t mind giving Philip what he needed. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Clint tugged off his boots, setting them neatly by his pack. He hung his stockings over the small wooden rack to dry. Jacket next then he unbuckled his belt, dragging it out of its loops, and snapping it together before he rolled it up.

Philip watched every flex of Clint’s fingers, how his hands moved, heat of his gaze raising the hairs on the back of Clint’s neck. Slowly, Clint opened his vest and let it slide down his arms. When he caught his shirt and pulled it out of his pants, Clint made sure to drag his fingertips over his hip bones and along the ridge of his cock that was growing more pronounced.  He crossed his arms and pulled the linen up, revealing his bare chest, inch by inch. Philip’s legs spread further apart, and he steepled his fingers, a small spark of static lighting the air.

That left only Clint’s pants and he unlaced them, taking his time, rolling the leather tie between his thumb and forefinger as he loosened it. He brushed his thumb over the head of his cock as he peeled back the smooth leather, moaned a little in the back of his throat and bit his bottom lip.  A pulse of magic flowed from Philip, the first notes of a familiar sultry melody; Clint tucked his thumbs in the waistband and pulled his pants down in one swift motion, bending strategically to show the curve of his ass as he stepped out of them. When he stood, he looked right into Philip’s eyes and let the music grow as he bared himself to his husband, waiting for the next order.

“The jar by the bed.  Stroke yourself.” Philip shifted in the chair and Clint realized he had a hand in his own lap, fingers next to the bulge in his pants. A remark was on the tip of Clint’s tongue, but he held it back, not willing to break the mood. Instead, he scooped some gel and rubbed his hands together, deliberately running his tongue along his bottom lip as he concentrated. Cupping his balls with one hand, he curled the other around himself and slid along the shaft.

A long sigh came from the chair, and Clint stared not at Philip’s face, but at the twitching length in Philip’s lap, thinking about what it felt like when Clint took it in his mouth, the unique taste and weight. It didn’t take long for the music to increase in tempo, and he began to hum the chords and match his hand’s strokes to the magic. Tension coiled in his gut and in the air; the candle’s flame brightened and the bed frame rattled.

“Phil,” Clint breathed the name out, lips parted.

“Stop.” Philip’s voice was deeper, a little shakier. He had to swallow before he went on. “I want to see you open yourself up for me.”

“Yes … Milord.” Clint knew Philip’s fantasies, understood exactly what he wanted. Turning he rested one elbow on the mattress, slathered up fingers, and braced a foot on the step stool by the bed, presenting himself for Philip’s viewing pleasure. Philip cursed under his breath as Clint slid a finger inside himself all the way up to the knuckle in one smooth stroke. “So, am I the pirate or are you? Shall I beg for mercy, promise you anything you want?”

“You’re still talking, Lord Barton.” Philip’s fingers traced the outlines of his cock.

“Ah, yes, Lord Colson … so I am.” He worked his finger in and out, exaggerating his movements. “I tend to be … very vocal … my lord.”

“Add another one.” Philip’s eyes were riveted on the slick slide as Clint pushed the second in with the first. “That’s it. Nice and wide. Make all the sounds you want.”

“Phil,” Clint’s cock was aching for some attention, but this was Philip’s scenario, so he ignored it. “Anything.”

“Keep going.” Philip sat forward, rubbing his hands on his knees.

The magic wrapped around him, and he stopped worrying about Philip being angry or tomorrow’s expedition. The knowledge that Philip was watching, that this was for him as much as for Clint became a duet, the melody changing from Clint to Philip then back again, neither of them always in the lead.  Soon, Clint was panting with the effort, but it wasn’t enough to take him to the edge.

“That’s good. On the bed, face the headboard, on your knees, shoulders on the mattress, hands behind your back.” The words were like punches of power, staccato high notes. Clint groaned as he climbed on the bed and got into position. Hands crossed at the wrists, cheek on the quilt, Clint gave up and let the music take him, riding the notes through the reprise.

The bed dipped as Philip got on. When the leather wrapped Clint’s wrists, he moaned and clenched his teeth to stop himself from coming right then and there. The belt wound around multiple times before Philip tied it off, the buckle resting on Clint’s back. Familiar hands framed Clint’s hips then the blunt head of Philip’s cock was pressing inside.

The first thrusts were slow and easy, Philip rolling his hips and making the fire flicker. Then he clamped his fingers tighter and snapped harder; the door rattled on its hinges and the wall boards creaked.  With no way to hang on, Clint slipped across the quilt as each plunge grew more powerful. The music swelled, wind whipped outside the window, a storm rolling through. Philip pressed Clint into the bed, stretching him out until his hands were on Clint’s waist, holding him down.

“Gods,” Clint moaned. “Please, Phil, please. I need to …”

Philip’s hand wrapped around Clint and just the feel of Philip’s palm was the crescendo that tipped Clint over, crying out and coming in spurts. The world turned upside down, the sky beneath them, the room spinning as the some came to a crashing end. Philip thrust a few more times then stilled as he pulsed inside of Clint. Static ran along the edges of Clint’s body, his hair standing on end. From outside, a rippled echo of power returned, words mixed with emotions and merged into the last few bars of the song, opening a rift that Clint tumbled through.

_Air rushed by, the cold bite of mountain winds. Below, a blue lake shimmered. Behind, warm arms held Clint tight. In front, an expanse of rocky ridges and towering peaks. Above, clear sky._

_“I’ve got you,” Philip murmured, his weight comforting and welcome._

_The landing was smooth with one jerk to stop. Sliding down the scaly skin, Clint stepped out on the ledge and looked into the startlingly clear depths. His breath formed white crystalline clouds as he exhaled._

_“I’ve got him,” Natasha said as she disappeared, body cutting between the waves._

_Like liquid ice, the waves lapped against his legs. Arm outstretched, he reached for the hand disappearing beneath the surface. Fear rolled in his gut. Someone was screaming._

_“I’ve got her,” Bruce … no the Berserker … no Bruce said as he dove past Clint._

_Frozen pane of glass before him. Around him curved walls of metal. He ached, deep in his bones, the only heat palm prints that burned on his thigh and his arm. Looking up he saw the curtain of frost part under the swipe of a hand, a face, his own, peering down._

_“Tell her I’m sorry. Save him,” James Barnes told him from his icy coffin._

“Clint? You alive?” Philip rolled off of him, leaving Clint to shiver with the cold. Bundling Clint up in his arms, Philip removed the belt and freed Clint’s hands before he held him tight.

“Gone for a bit, but I’m back. You feeling better now?” The visions receded and Clint snuggled under the blanket Philip tossed over them.

“You did the right thing, you know,” Philip explained. “I can’t very well tell you to be the Lord Holder and then get upset when you do exactly that.”

“I could have said it in private,” Clint argued.

“No, people need to see that you are in charge, even when it’s me you are putting in his place. Especially me.” Philip nuzzled Clint’s skin. “Doesn’t mean that you get to be the boss in the bedroom all the time, though.”

“Ah, turnabout’s fair play? I can’t say I mind all that much.” Clint really didn’t. “If I have this to look forward to after a disagreement, we might have to argue more often. At least the house is still standing.”

“Oh, gods, Darcy and Peter and Jane probably felt that.” Philip actually blushed at the thought.

“Peter’s down in the basement with his nose stuck in some big book. Short of an earthquake I don’t think he’d notice. Jane’s outside with Thor; they say they’re stargazing but I think that’s what courting looks like. Never done it, so I don’t know for sure.” Clint laughed when Philip nudged him with his elbow. “And Darcy is distracted by the Berserker … what’s she calling him? The Hulk? Part of that may have been them and not us.”

“The Berserker?” Philip pushed up and looked down at Clint. “Are you sure she’s okay? Did you see her? Should I …”

“Phil. Stop. I know the difference between the sounds of someone in trouble and the moans of someone enjoying themselves. No, I didn’t open the door, and yes, I’m sure it was consensual. They were talking and laughing.” Clint tugged on Philip’s arm until he lay back down.

“My sister is having sex with a berserker. Right now. Under the same roof where I just tied up my husband and fucked him.” Philip stared at the ceiling.

“She’s not in the house; they’re out in the stables. The tack room to be exact,” Clint offered.

“Great. That makes it so much better,” Philip complained.

“Well, tying me up made me feel better.” Clint kissed Philip’s neck just below his ear. “So I count that as a good end to the day. Now, do you want me to tell you about me and you riding a dragon or not?”

* * *

 

He watched those sleeping in their rooms, the ones still awake, and the ones keeping guard. The ones who burned the brightest, drawing the magic out of the others to their light. The ones who kept their minds sharp, chasing the intricate connections to their logical end. The ones who wrestled with their own demons, pain and loss and memories, trusting despite it all. The ones who loved, the ones who were afraid to love, and the ones who were determined to never love again. The ones who dreamed of a better world and the ones who believed they deserved this one. The ones who were angry, the ones who were scared, and the ones who were hopeful. He saw them all -- the fighters, the scholars, the mages and those who had yet to tap their own destiny – and he doubted his mission for a split second before his commands overrode the thought.  These people were the enemy, a disease to be eradicated from the Midlands for its own protection.

“I have another job for you.”

His master’s voice called him back from his wandering; his armor shifted as he turned his head, the yellow and green scrollwork reflecting the bright lights. “What are the parameters?”

“My power is almost fully restored; I need only one more thing to complete my recharging. A small round glowing gem in a metal cage that harnesses the power of the stars. Get it for me.”

“As you wish, Milord. Where do I find it?”                                                                                                                         .”

“Burosey. In the workshop of Lord Anthony Stark. You are authorized to use any force necessary to obtain it.”

 

[1] Adrienne Rich, “The Floating Poem, Unnumbered” from _Twenty One Love Poems_

[2] These next few lines are all from Sharon Crowley’s beautiful “The Knowing”


	12. The Second Coming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What has Darcy vexed to nightmare? And who is this mysterious knight? Battle ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, sorry, sorry for the long break. These last two chapters have been really hard to write and I went off on vacation in there for a week. So have the two at once!

The silver band around her finger slipped back and forth, just a bit too big. Darcy felt its weight under her gloves as she gripped the reins. Her wedding had been nothing like the big fetes the other girls at court held; they had expensive gowns, overflowing hot house flowers, platters of exotic foodstuffs, and free flowing glasses of wine. Darcy’s ceremony had been held in the stable yard, horses packed and ready to go, everyone in traveling leathers and heavy coats. Jane had loaned her a blue scarf, Jessica rounded up a bouquet from some of Singer’s plants and herbs he grew downstairs, and Natasha wrapped a red ribbon through Darcy’s braid, an old tradition for fertility and good luck. The ring had come from Singer; smooth and plain, it was very old, something Singer had found in one of the boxes of books Sam Wilson had brought him a few years ago. Peter had stood up for her, Philip giving her away, passing her arm to Bruce on the steps. No church official in his jewel encrusted robe intoned over her, just Clint with a scruffy half-beard, his hair ruffled by the morning breeze. She didn’t miss the long-winded sermons on fidelity and obeying her husband with all the euphemisms to avoid talking about sex; instead, she got a simple set of questions and a welcome to the family hug. A Prince of Asgard’s signature as a witness on her marriage license ensured that no one, even the King himself, could gainsay the legitimacy of the ceremony.

None of that mattered, though; only the warmth in Bruce’s eyes as he watched her agree to be his wife was sharp in her memory. The words in her head that begged to be spoken aloud were filed away until later when they had the time and the luxury to explore the bond. One kiss stirred a wind that whipped through the space and then they were on their way, swinging up in their saddles and heading north.  With a hardy roan from Singer’s stable, Darcy settled into the rhythm of the ride despite the twinges from muscles she’d used the night before; the Hulk had made good his promise, taking her over the edge again and again until she’d dropped into an exhausted sleep, curled up between his body and the fire, a blanket beneath them and a saddle as her pillow. Wasn’t the first time she’d slept in stables, but it was the first time she’d been woken by gentle hands and fingers and easy kisses in the dark just before the rising sun. Slow and sweet, Bruce had made love to her once more.

He was riding at the back of the party, rear guard with Rodriguez and Jessica. Clint was in front with Thor and Natasha, leading the way up the trail. Darcy was in the middle, and she had no illusions that she was the weakest link in the group; she was the target after all, so it made sense to put the strongest fighters between her and any attackers.  Andrew and Peter had refused to be left behind, Andrew arguing that someone needed to stay with the horses and Peter turning down a chance at a copy of Watson and Crick to accompany them.

The temperature was steadily dropping as the elevation rose; the strange snow storm that had trapped them just days before made little impact on this area, only an inch or so of the white stuff on the ground. Still, Darcy could feel the cold starting to creep into her toes and fingers despite the layers she was wearing. They’d paused for a lunch of cold meat rolls and dried fruit, getting out of the saddle and stomping around a bit to aid circulation. Pushing as fast as they could, they stopped only when they couldn’t see the path through the growing gloom of night, not willing to risk a horse breaking a leg on unfamiliar terrain. The fire was warm but small, and everyone ate reheated stew from shared plates after the horses were feed and curried. Despite her arguments to the contrary, Darcy was not scheduled for one of the night watches; the only reason she didn’t fight more was that Philip had the same restriction. Magic, it seemed, required sleep to be effective, so the two of them were bundled off early, Clint wrapping himself around Philip and Bruce spooning Darcy in a very warm cocoon of blankets while Natasha and Rodriguez sat first watch. The most comfortable she’d ever been sleeping outside with Bruce’s body sheltering her on one side and the fire’s heat on the other, Darcy fell into a deep dreamless place and didn’t move until the first rays of the sun crept over the horizon and the smell of coffee brewing tickled her nose.

The second day was much like the first; the trails grew steeper, less traveled, more overgrown with vegetation. For most of the morning, they were able to ride two abreast; after lunch, they had to go single file, slowing down as the horses had to pick their way through rocks and roots.

“So, the words … do you think of them before hand? Or do they just come to you? Are they random?” Fandral seemed truly interested and he had turned out to be an engaging companion during the ride. So far, Darcy had learned two new songs – a funny comedy romance about a milkmaid and her erstwhile courtly lover and an hysterical duet that was nothing more than a series of insults between the two singers disguised as flirting – and how to address Asgardian royalty, just in case. He had a never ending list of stories about Thor and the Warrior’s Three, and regaled her with tales of the Lady Sif’s exploits that put the men to shame.

“They just pop in my head at the right time, but I think they’re related, like the words shape the magic. Or maybe the magic shapes the words? I don’t know for sure, I’m just glad Philip made me read all those books and listen to poems now.” Talking about it with Fandral was helping; he didn’t judge, just listened and offered an occasional suggestion.  “I remember snatches, odd lines and choruses; if I’d paid more attention, I‘d probably be better off.”

“I find that the right song tends to come to me if I don’t try to capture it. Sometimes I think your bard William the Butler had it right; we are all connected to a vast world spirit, a well of shared experiences that speak to us all on a primal level. When a lyric touches on an image or emotion from the spiritus mundi, that is where great power lies,” Fandral replied.

“William the Butler?” Darcy wasn’t sure she remembered any such poet, but she rarely connected names with phrases anyway.

“Aye, of Eriu. Let’s see if I can remember correctly … _somewhere in the sands of the desert, a shape with lion body and the head of a man, A gaze blank and piteous as the sun is moving its slow thighs_ … that’s one of my favorites, I think.” As Fandral sang the lines, Darcy’s memory stirred. Yes, she knew this one.

“ _What rough beast_ ,” she replied without thinking, “ _its hour come round at last, slouches towards Bethlehem to be born_?”[1]

The ground vibrated beneath her horse’s hooves as a crack of thunder sounded high up the mountain. Lightning split the sky in front of them, lancing down to a point somewhere further above. Peter’s horse shied, rearing up as a second stronger quake shook the trail; snow rained down from the tree branches, covering them with heavy wet whiteness that began to soak into their clothes. A clump ran down the back of Darcy’s neck and beneath her collar, but she was too busy holding the reins, keeping her own steed in check.

“I’m sorry,” she shouted as Philip tried to grab hold of her horse’s bridle. “I didn’t think it would …”

Black clouds scuttled across the sky, rolling in fast from the west, slamming into the whiter clouds building over the mountains. Lightning danced between them and the wind whipped up, shaking the topmost branches of the pine trees along the trail. Darcy leaned down over her horse’s head, trying to keep her balance with her knees as she patted the silky neck. Ducking under the flailing palfrey, Andrew got a hand on the bridle just above the mouthpiece and began whispering in calm easy tones. The horse began to settle, eyes still wide and heart beating wildly beneath Darcy’s palms.

“What are you doing?” Philip asked, his own magic sparking around his hands as if answering hers. Darcy heard the faintest strains of music, the tune to the lines she’d quoted.

“I didn’t … we were just talking …” Darcy couldn’t believe what she was seeing; a long funnel cloud began to form, swirling as it funneled downward towards a point further up the mountain. “Um, I think this is bad.”

Like two armies the storms met, whiter clouds spiraling in smaller circles, the dark clouds pressing head on, spearheads that tried to break the line. A curtain of snow began to fall from the west; winds from the North broke it up and scattered the precipitation away. The funnel skipped the mountain slope ahead of them, jumping over valleys and bouncing away from the force of the gales that buffeted them all.

“Darcy?” Peter’s hand wrapped around her wrist and she started, trying to shake off the whirling words and thoughts that were whipping around in her brain. “It’s all right. Everything’s going to be okay.  You need to control it.”

“Can’t you see that?” She asked him, looking out at the tornado that was creeping nearer. “We have to get to safety.”

“Darcy,” Philip’s hand was on her other arm; a wave of comfort flowed from him, a magical blanket of concern and worry. “We’re fine. You’re the one in danger; the spell is draining your energy. Stop it, cut it off for me.”

She couldn’t understand what they were talking about. Why couldn’t they see? Things were spinning out of control and they were right in the path of the destruction. “ _The center cannot hold_.” She fought the arms that circled her, trying to get them to understand. “ _Things are falling apart_.”

“Darce.” Bruce’s voice, strong and sure, broke through to her. “Whatever you’re seeing, it’s part of the magic. We’re not in any danger. You started something with your words and it’s tearing you apart.”

So cold. She was so cold. Like a block of ice surrounded her, skin blue, mouth unable to open, lungs filled with frigid water instead of air.

“ _Innocence is drowned_ ,” she chattered between her teeth.

An ache in her chest so deep, like a sword thrust through her heart, the burning pain of loss.

“ _Falcon cannot hear_.”

But she could, the sounds of men screaming, the clashing of swords, the call of commands. The battle was all around her, bodies of friends falling in the corners of her eyes.

“ _No conviction_.”

Gone, he was gone and she was tumbling after, tied by an invisible thread that wrapped around her throat and stole her voice. Such agony and fear and grief.

“ _Turning, turning on a widening gyre, the falcon cannot hear the falconer.”_ Fandral’s voice cut through the cold, a rope tossed across a stormy surface. “ _Things fall apart; the center cannot hold. The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere the ceremony of innocence is drowned_.”

“ _The best lack all conviction_ ,” she finished when he paused. “ _And the worst are full of passionate intensity.”_

They joined their voices together, moving from words to song.

_“Surely some revelation is at hand. Surely the second coming is at hand.”_

She could feel Bruce now, their bond that tied her here with him reeling her back in. The last verse of the song echoed in her head, sung by another voice, and Darcy was both here and there, in Bruce’s arms, but also standing on a ledge, looking over a lake as she sang.

_“The darkness drops again but now I know that twenty centuries of stony sleep were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, and what rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?”_

Metal rattled, and she saw them, shield, knife, pieces of armor, vibrating in their hiding places. The water stirred, ice cracking. The funnel cloud touched down in front of her, swirling out to consume all around it, sucking her into the darkness.

* * *

 

“We have to keep going.” Clint’s voice cut through the confusion.

Philip knew Clint was right; despite his own misgivings, Darcy’s health and maybe her life were at stake. The energy swirling around hadn’t stopped when Darcy passed out; Philip’s worry woke his own power and he could see the colors wrapping around his sister. Strands spun out and ran different directions, disappearing through the trees, two back the way they came, another to their left, and a very thick line right the way they were heading. Magic pulsed along all of them, draining Darcy as the spell reached out.

“She’s started the calling,” Fandral said. “Until the spell is complete, she will be tied to it.”

“How long will that take?” Peter peered over from his saddle. “Will she be alright?”

“I don’t know,” Philip admitted. “This is beyond me.”

Even as he watched, he could see green begin to creep around Darcy, curling tight around her as Bruce held her. The bond between them was beginning to bleed over, the spell pulling on Bruce as well.

“I have seen such a situation,” Thor said. “The magic is best ended soon; she is young and yet untrained. A spell of great magnitude is difficult even for an experienced skald.”

“Can’t you stop it, Phil?” Peter ran a hand through his air, looking to his brother for an answer. “Do your magic thing.”

“I don’t know,” Philip had to admit. “Singer might, but I’ve been going on instinct as much as knowledge. Maybe the spell is too advanced; it’s pulling her in so many directions. My best guess is to follow the strongest thread to its conclusion.”

“You can see it?” Clint pulled his horse alongside Philip. “If it’s calling the other parts of Rogers’ armor, why would it be linked to the lake?” Shaking his head, Clint reined in his horse and started forward, getting the group moving again. Jessica and Natasha were on point, ahead and behind on the trail, guarding them. “Nevermind, that’s not important. Bruce, what’s your opinion? Is the bond telling you anything?”

“Cold. She’s freezing.” Bruce held her tight against his chest. “I can give her some warmth, but I don’t think that’s going to hold forever. Staying here won’t help; we go forward. If she gets worse, we go back. As much as I hate it, trial and error is our best bet.”

“Here.” Andrew passed over a horse blanket, a coarse woolen rectangle designed for cold weather. It was scratchy but maintained body heat well.

In a few quick moves, they had Darcy wrapped tight, just her face, tilted towards Bruce’s face, showing. Then they began moving again, faster than before, worry more of a weight than caution. Overhead, the grey clouds swept in, some darker than others, heavy with snow. Clint glanced back at Philip; the pulse of concern told Philip his husband was sensing the changing currents of magic that were starting to gather around not just Darcy, but the whole party. The book Philip had been reading talked of magic calling magic, how there were those who had the sight, the ability to see energies and auras; most mages knew when another was close. To Philip, people had unique colors, some brighter, more vibrant, others weaker but still there. Clint, he knew, heard it as music, each of them with their own instruments and parts to play. Words, it seemed, were Darcy’s medium; Philip hadn’t had a chance to talk to her about any differences she experienced yet. Bruce had mentioned emotions, his empathic ability that overloaded his mind since childhood; the bond between him and Darcy helped filter out the cacophony and, if Philip had to bet, Bruce would be able to sense magic by the emotional state of the user once he learned how to focus more effectively.

The problem was that Loki was a sorcerer as well as the man he said he served. Just how easy it would be for Loki to find them … the Prince had a knack for knowing exactly where they were, showing up at opportune times to create chaos and leave again. Philip wasn’t sure what Loki’s goals were, only that they were his own; Loki had one master, himself.  He was as likely to help them as he was to hinder them; the man truly loved to make mischief and watch the world burn. If it suited him, he’d send a storm or offer advice with a flip of the coin.

But as powerful as Loki was, the Sorcerer was that much more. Philip felt like he was a babe in diapers compared to the man who opposed them. With the magic spinning away, Darcy was the center of the spokes and it wouldn’t be long before the Sorcerer noticed, if he hadn’t already. Had Philip been in the Sorcerer’s place, he’d have a watch set on any location linked to Rogers and his Thanes in an effort to find them. And who knew how the Sorcerer experienced magic? He might be able to know not only who cast the spell, but what it was for and where it was leading them just with a glance.

“He’s going to come after us, isn’t he?” Peter asked. “Magic is like … well … sound. You emit it, it carries through the air or ether, and people who have the same senses can pick it up. The spell will draw him right to us.”

“You can feel it?” Philip knew Peter was brilliant; there was a valid reason Peter had gotten into university at a very young age and it wasn’t just Fury’s reputation.

“It’s a vibration, like plucking a string on a guitar except it’s in the back of my head.” Peter shrugged, trying to make less of his abilities, and Philip winced. Too many people had dismissed Peter because he was the youngest. The time had come to stop that.

“And when you know there’s danger? Is that the same?” Philip saw the way Peter’s eyes widened a bit as he made the connection.

“Yeah, I mean, yes, in a way.” He fumbled for the right words. “My vision goes black and white, sometimes red when it’s really bad, but my back teeth practically hum.”

“Are we different? Can you tell us by the vibrations?” Philip tugged off a glove and reached over to touch the sliver of skin that showed between Peter’s cuff and his glove. Peter scrunched up his face at the contact and paused before answering.

“Never thought about it before, but yeah. You’re slower, steady, like … when a phalanx of men is marching in formation. Darce is more like a hummingbird, fast, never stopping, moving all the time.  Jane’s … a spring rain on the roof. And Clint?” Peter thought about it. “It’s a cliché, but a bowstring, a sharp twang and then ripples. You think that’s important?”

“Yes. I do. Darcy plucked the string and the Sorcerer is sitting in the middle of the web like a big spider, just waiting for us to make ourselves known.” The darkening sky was a confirmation of that. “If you have the least inkling something is coming …”

“You’ll be the first to know,” Peter assured him.

“No. Don’t wait to tell me. Just protect Darcy, understand?”

Peter looked at him, face settling into a grim mask of determination. “Understood.”

* * *

 

Bruce could feel Darcy’s shivers not just through their bodies, but also across the bond. A jumble of mixed emotions came through with the cold; loss, sadness, grief, anger, and pain, all of them faded, echoes of someone else pouring into Darcy’s mind. The worry and concern of the others was loud enough to filter in as well, a background level that added to the growing sense of wrongness, the need to hurry.

She was fading, he could tell. The place she’d been occupying in his mind and heart was shrinking as she pulled away from him, walling herself off, why he didn’t know. Maybe she was unconsciously trying to protect him, and he couldn’t seem to reach her anymore, his own strength freely offered going to waste.

*Too many layers,* the Berserker whispered. *We need to touch her. Let me.*

Shaking his head, Bruce pushed back the fear-fueled desire to protect her. He used his teeth to take off one glove and worked his hand inside the blanket to free one of Darcy’s hands, uncovering it and winding their fingers together. A little jolt of energy surged through the skin, but nowhere near enough.

*Circle. We need a circle,* the Berserker reminded him. *You’re weakened by the spell. I’m not.*

Weak. Bruce’s foggy brain managed to grab on to the words and make sense of them. He realized he was shaking, the reins fallen from this numb fingers, horse simply following Andrew’s in front of him.

“Need …” he tried to speak, but his voice was quiet and lost in the wave of frigid water that surged up from the cracking emotions. “Phil …”

With a growl, the Berserker shoved his way out of the ice and to the surface, dragging both Darcy and Bruce with him. He jerked aside the blanket, then yanked open his own coat, freeing the layers until he could put Darcy’s left hand on his chest, her fingers resting on the tattooed torc around his neck, his hand covering hers entirely. As her palm flattened on his skin, she moaned and her eyes fluttered open.

“ _I know it hurts to burn_ ,”[2] she mumbled.

“Bruce … Hulk,” Natasha corrected herself. “What can I do to help?”

“Free her other hand, skin-to-skin works best. Bruce was giving her his energy. Almost lost them both.” He shifted Darcy around; Natasha took their gloves when he finally got her arm free. Fingers wound together, his touching her wrist, dwarfing her smaller hand.

A ripple of power expanded outward as their palms came into contact, the two of them at the center.  Natasha’s horse shied away, but she held firm with her knees until she had control again.

In quick succession, the Hulk saw a collection of images, raw feelings straight through Darcy to him. Emotions that fed him, the words whispered in Darcy’s voice inside his head.

A sharp knife of fear, a yawning chasm tearing open his heart as the man fell, disappearing into the shadow depths.  “ _He does not hear me, but rides heavy over the yawning deep_.”[3]

Numbness spreading across his skin, a welcome nothingness that cloaked the pain as ice closed over the man’s head, eyes growing dim. “ _What freezings I have felt. What dark days have I seen_.”[4]

Regret, ache, so far away, a gaping emptiness. Flicking awake, wiping the frost from his brow with a gloved hand. “ _When the ghost quickens … is it sent out on the road naked_ …”[5]

Rage, red hot anger that melted the snow around her. She stood on the edge of the precipe and looked down. “ _The coolness with which, like a fickle lover, she dismisses fall.” **[6]**_

He roared, felt the pull of the magic, knew what he needed to do. Swinging his leg over, he jumped down from his horse.

“We must get to the lake,” the Hulk said to the others. “It’s more than the armor. Something else is happening. I can run faster than the horses can go. There’s no time left to waste. She has to make it before the sorcerer gets there first.”

“Perhaps I can help.” Thor dismounted and handed off his reins to Fandral, inclining his head at the other man’s unspoken question. “If you would entrust Lady Lewis to me, I can get her there quickly.”

The Hulk didn’t like the Prince, not one bit. He was Loki’s brother and Loki had tried to hurt Philip and Clint. “No. She’s not leaving my arms.”

Thor stepped back and began to float upwards, his feet leaving the ground. “I can carry you both if you will.”

“Um, is he …hovering?” Peter asked.

“There is much you do not know about Asgardians, my friends. We have never denied our talents.” Thor smiled over at Peter. “Come, friends. I would see the spell ended before the lady is endangered further.”

Darcy’s eyes fluttered open. “Do it,” she murmured. “He needs us to help reach him.”

With a curt nod, the Hulk agreed; Thor wrapped an arm around his waist, cradling Darcy between them, and then launched himself into the air, soaring up towards the mountain tops.

“Well, hell,” Jessica said into the silence that followed. “That’s quite a thing, isn’t it?”

* * *

                                                                                                                                                                                                  

The music played at the edge of his hearing, like the singer was just beyond the next turn, further up the mountain path. A maddening tempo that pushed at him, urging him to match pace, the magic pulsed all around them, growing stronger the closer they got. Clint could feel his own talent vibrating like a plucked string in answer to the call.  His eyesight grew sharper, picking out the air currents that drove the storm clouds above their heads. His feet fairly flew over the rocky path as he followed Natasha’s nimble leaps up the mountainside, and his hand itched to have his bow in it.

No one spoke, their every breath reserved for the journey; they’d left the horses when the way grew too steep, Andrew and Rodriguez staying as planned to watch them.  Now they climbed, the road little more than a footpath, sometimes almost straight up. And yet, everyone kept pace. Peter leaped from one rocky outcropping to the next as if he was skipping across stones in a stream, sometimes swinging between branches of the snow laden pines. Fandral was as agile as a mountain goat, carrying his pack plus Darcy’s slung across his back. Jessica was barely sweating, running beside him, one eye on their rear flank.

And Philip … Philip was glowing, an aura gleaming around him, little sparks flying, so intent was he on his goal. His feet were almost skimming the ground, the magic flowing around him. If Clint concentrated, he could see the colors mixing in the stream of energy, Darcy’s cranberry and Bruce’s green, curling around a bright blue he couldn’t place. As it passed through them, their colors joined it, swirling into a stronger thread. Behind them, it spread out, running different directions, more than the three remaining pieces of the armor.

“There!” Jessica pointed; the path flattened out, splitting. One branch led up further, the other curved to the left. They reached the ledge in a few minutes, and Clint surveyed the scene. The path ran around the rocky edge of the frozen water, the lake roughly oval in the dip between three peaks. Narrow pass gave them entrance; sheer sides of the mountains sheltered them from the wind that was picking up. Maybe a mile across, Clint could see the expanse of ice and the network of cracks that webbed across the surface. He tracked the upward trail all the way to an overhang that jutted out, an edge of a darkened arch visible behind it. A flash of Thor’s red cape fluttered in the wind.

“A cave of some sort.” Clint motioned to Philip. “Up there. See?”

With a shake of his head, Philip turned his eyes upward then back to Clint. “I can’t make anything out. It’s too far.”

 “We have to go. Now. Clint?” Even as Jessica grabbed Philip’s arm and began hauling him up the path, she looked to Clint for his orders.

“Go,” he agreed. If he hadn’t already trusted Jessica’s warnings, the spike of magic made his decision for him.

“Incoming!” Peter’s head whipped around and he pointed to a slope where hands burst upward from the ground. Bodies erupted from ancient graves, nothing but dirty white skeletons, flesh gone, random metal of armor and swords rusty.

“Behind us,” Natasha said, putting her back to Clint’s. “Four … six … ten … coming from the forest.”

“Get Phil up there,” Clint ordered.  Jessica was already in motion, Philip in front of her. “We’re too open here. We need a defensible position.” Just a short way down the trail was a wider spot, a flat area with the remains of what was probably once a shepherd’s hut. “There.”

He spared a moment as they rushed along the shore to worry about Peter following orders, but the young man didn’t hesitate when Clint paired him with Natasha. Four wasn’t enough to hold for long; for a second, Clint flashed on Andrew and Ada back on the trail, second guessing his decision. It was made now; there was nothing to do but live with it.

“Fire!” Peter shouted and then he was scrambling up into the tree line. Clint didn’t have time to yell at him because the first shambling golem was swinging at him and he danced out of the way of the meaty fist aimed at his head. His sword flashed, but did little damage, didn’t even slow the creature down. He focused in on the stitching, cutting through the cord that held the thing together; it lost an arm to gravity but kept coming without a flinch.

A flaming branch whipped over Clint’s head and landed on the golem he was fighting. It kindled instantly and stumbled back with an inarticulate cry.

“First try!” Peter crowed. He’d started a small brush fire and was feeding it as fast as he threw more missiles at the creatures. Darting around, Peter was barely touching the ground between jumps, moving at an incredible speed.

The burning golem swung again and Clint landed a solid kick into its midsection, sending it reeling backwards into a second one. Like dry tinder, it too caught on fire.  As he spun to attack the next opponent, Clint saw Fandral fighting, a wide smile on his face as he danced around, smacking the skeleton in front of him with the flat of his sword, knocking its head off its spinal column.

“Nothing like knocking a few heads together, is there?” Fandral joked. Natasha grimaced at the terrible pun, dodging an old pike and swinging the rusty mace she’d liberated from another skeleton.

“I can see why Jessica likes you,” Natasha replied, not even out of breath as she kept fighting. Fandral’s eyes lit up with pleasure.

“Ah, so she is interested! I shall have to press my suit after the battle.”

A throaty growl drew Clint’s attention back and he focused on his own fight, extending his senses behind and beside him while keeping his eyes on the danger in front of him. He ducked seconds before Peter yelled a warning, another branch hitting its target. He feinted left before the golem punched on his right. He saw the opening while the creature was still blocking the way, moving at the exact same time to roll behind it, catch some flaming material from its back and hurl at the next one.  Anticipation, thinking ahead, he kept going until the path cleared and he could catch his breath.

“Clint!” Peter called, pointing. “They’re heading up the trail.”

At least six of the golems were toiling along the path towards the ledge. “I’ve got ‘em,” Clint said, drawing his bow. “Keep the fire going.”

In his quiver, Clint had a dozen fire heads, carefully preserved in paraffin wrap. Switching them took a few seconds then he lit the first one, letting it catch fully before finding a perch and taking aim. Sighting down the shaft, he waited until the golems were in a line before letting the arrow fly. It sank into the back of one of them, the force propelling it forward into another. Both went up in a whoosh of flame.

“Two-in-one. Good shot!” Fandral called. Before Clint could move, Peter had a branch ready for him to use to light the next arrow.

A second shot netted two more; one fell and rolled back down into the other one. Natasha and Fandral were almost through all the skeletons, scattering bones along the shore and stomping on them to shatter them. Clint balanced another arrow in the string, eyeing the best angles.

The explosion blew him backwards off his feet; he collided with Peter and they went down together in a heap. The light was blinding, green and cranberry and blue circling out from the ledge above.  A wave of energy hit the ice surface and the cracks deepened, breaking into a myriad of pieces, blue water sloshing up from underneath. Power slammed into Clint; he was up and running, bow drawn, arrow flying before he breathed one breath. It curved as it went, bursting into bright flame, tunneling through one then two then three then more golems before it embedded itself in halfway through a tree.

“Damn it,” Natasha cursed. 

The bones reformed, missing gaps and crumbling pieces. Half-burned golems came back together. And, from the woods all around, howls rang out, shadowy figures, low the ground, crouching out from between the trees. There was not time to do more than twist and fire, again and again, notching and drawing with a speed that was impossible, arrows bursting through the wargs’ chests. Clint could only catch glimpses of the others and trust his instincts on when to fire. His arrows began to spark their way through the air, split the air with a purple trail that shimmered off the fletching.

Peter bounced from place to place, tumbling in mid-air. Natasha grew more graceful, blurring until she was almost impossible to follow even for Clint’s eyes. Fandral’s sword danced to his own music, the sound of his laughter and encouragement. Still, the creatures came, wargs at a loping run, golems with a shambling pace, and skeletal warriors clattering across the ground. Retreat was inevitable; they couldn’t hold against the numbers that pressed them to the water’s edge.

_“This is the place. And I am here.” **[7]**_

Darcy’s voice rang out over the din of battle; Clint risked a glance upward in time to see her dark hair flying as she stood on the edge, back turned to the drop. She spread her arms and power collected in her palms. A roar rent the air and then she released the balls of energy with a crackle of lightning. The ground shook, tearing apart, long fissures opening, rocks loosened and sliding down the slopes of the mountains. A thin part of the trail crumbled and water began pouring out, downward, a new waterfall forming.

The earth under Peter shifted, sharp edge rising up as another part fell; he teetered and Clint reached for him but Clint’s fingers closing on empty air. Contorting his body, Peter’s arm straightened and a thin white strand shot from his wrist; with a splat, it attached to a branch and Peter swung out of the way as rocks crashed into the hole behind him.

Then Natasha went down beneath a sea of brown bone, her shout echoing across the tempestuous surface of the lake. Fandral was there, sweeping his sword to push the dead back, taking a nasty cut to his side as he put his body between her and their adversaries.

_“We are the half-destroyed instruments that once held to a course.” **[8]**_

Time slowed. Clint saw the sharp claws that curled around Natasha’s ankle, dragging her into the water despite her struggles. The bond on her wrist glowed brightly, blue and red and silver almost blinding as she crossed her arms to protect her face from a rusty sword. He saw the water level drop, the ice tremble, as the scaled arm emerged from the depths, lifting Natasha’s body with ease.

Peter screamed, or Philip, or both of them, their voices shouting “NO!” together, accompanied by the Hulk’s howl. Clouds darkened, lightning crackled, thunder boomed, the ground shook, and Darcy was falling, her hair obscuring her face as she plummeted to the water.  White strands whizzed past Clint’s head and Peter was in the air, swinging across the space straight towards his sister, arm outstretched to catch her.  Running along the shore, Clint aimed an arrow at the eye that opened as it crested above the waves, gleaming ridge of scales folding back to reveal blue depths and a black pupil that dilated and tracked Natasha’s every shimmy. Wing tips emerged, flapped, blowing both Clint’s arrow and Peter off his trajectory, tossing him into the mountainside.

Unmoving, Darcy hit the lake on her back, a cry of pain wrenched from her as she slid off an icy patch and into the cold water, going under in the heartbeat it took Clint to sling his pack on the ground and open the flap, hand searching for the length of rope he had tucked inside. Tangling his fingers in the coils, he yanked it out, heedless of the warg nipping at his heels, tying off an end around his last shaft and letting it fly into a nearby tree.

“Clint!” Philip’s voice battered his ears, loud as a trumpet fanfare. “It’s a …”

The dragon rose, sucking water up with him, shaking off ice and jumping free of the basin. Even in the dull light of the stormy sky, its skin glowed red as magic lifted it up. A bloody gash across its stomach closed, ripped wings mended, and the mangled socket regrew a second eye.

“By all that’s holy.” Clint stood transfixed, rope in his hand. “That’s a fucking red dragon.”

* * *

 

Jitters ran along Darcy’s nerves, her fingers tapping along her thigh. It was windy on the ledge, exposed skin feeling crisp and fragile. In truth, she felt that way all over, especially in her head where words were spilling one after the other, ripped out of her head and out into the spell.  Like lightning channeled through a metal rod, she felt like a conduit for something much bigger. Snuggling tighter into Bruce’s arms, she shivered and pressed her lips tight to keep the sounds from spilling out.

“H-h-h-h-how long?” she chattered.

“Soon.” Bruce was like a furnace at her back. “Thor said …”

The Prince landed on the smooth outcropping with a thump, knees bent, cloaking billowing out.  “The party is close; they are coming up the trail now. Are you ready, My Lady?”

Nodding, Darcy started to push up; the Hulk stood instead, pulling her with him.  The cave opening yawned behind them, a deep oval that, at any other time, she’d be itching to explore. But now, she was as weak as a kitten, her reserve of energy going to keeping herself alert and functioning. It would be so easy to give in to the lure of the phrases, lose herself in magic and let it take over.

“Let’s … do … this,” she bit out each word, one at a time.

The idea was to finish the spell here, in the right place. Thor might be a warrior but magic was more common place in the Asgardian court; he had more experience than all of them.  What she’d inadvertently started on the trail was magic that was tied to a specific location. There were types of spells that, once cast, lay dormant until someone met the exact criteria to reactivate them.  As soon as they’d arrived on this ledge, the magic had clicked into place and the words had begun to make sense. Interspersed with flashes of what Darcy thought were hazy memories of the original mage.

She took a deep breath. They’d discussed this; Bruce had steadfastly refused her pleas to let her do it alone.  He wrapped his arms around her, tucking his bare hands inside her coat, covering hers.  The energy circled between them and she used it to buoy herself up.  Facing the rolling clouds, she dipped into the power and opened her mouth.

Turning and turning in the widening gyre   

The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

Things fall apart; the center cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere   

The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

The best lack all conviction, while the worst   

Are full of passionate intensity.

 

Surely some revelation is at hand;

Surely the Second Coming is at hand.   

The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out   

When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi

Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert   

A shape with lion body and the head of a man,   

A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,   

Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it   

Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.   

The darkness drops again; but now I know   

That twenty centuries of stony sleep

Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,   

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,   

Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

 

As she spoke, the energy grew until she could see it, flowing in from the lake and other directions, faint and very, very old. The words opened up, spinning out to include more and more strands, from Thor and from the trail below, circling back to her to be changed. She felt it all, Philip and Peter and even Clint and the others, floating on the surface, so easy to tap. More distant, the rattle of metal, of breastplate and armor, shaking free of their hiding places, and hearing the call. Even further away, minds turning towards her, ending their searching and narrowing in on her. So far that they were nothing but echoes came the tears of the woman who stood here, watched the fall, and said these same words.

 

Darcy sensed the Sorcerer’s answering magic, reeling about them, homing in and stirring the dead, the creatures that waited in limbo. She knew when they attacked, that her words vexed him, the hour come round at last.

 

And, beneath it all, close and yet centuries away, an ember burned bright blue, needing only a new flame, and a massive figure slouched in the shadows, waiting to be reborn.  As she said the last word, the bands of magic that had been draining her fell away, and she was awash in the power of her bond.

 

“Impressive.” The armored knight appeared in the cave mouth. Darcy, Bruce and Thor whirled to face it. The green hood of his cloak blew down and Darcy saw a closed helm, gleaming silver with a yellow and green painted mask. “But it will not work. Peggy Carter wasn’t strong enough; there will be no hero reborn, just the beasts my master will let loose.”

 

“Who are you, villain?” Thor asked, swinging his hammer in a whistling arc.

 

“I am my master’s spokesman, naught but a vision of his domination.” The knight’s eyes never wavered from Darcy as he spoke. “He tasked me to witness the hopelessness of man, the evil you have unleashed in your attempts to control this world.”

 

Something in his voice spoke to Darcy, a tinge of emotion that belied the logical calm he projected. She squeezed Bruce’s hand and pulled on her husband’s abilities, opening both of them to sense the knight’s feelings.

 

“But that’s not what you’ve seen, is it?” she spoke softly. “ _The thing you came for: the wreck and not the story of the wreck_.”[9]

 

“I have watched you, Darcy Lewis, with your smiles and laughter. Seen the gentling of Banner’s beast. The love between Barton and your brother. How Thor strives to right his brother’s wrongs and Barton listens to his thanes.” The knight sighed, a haunting sound. “I have followed the threads, seen the others, their brilliance and compassion and bravery. Yes, I have seen the greatest of evils you are capable of, but I have also seen the good.”

 

“ _The thing itself and not the myth_ ,” Bruce murmured, the two tied so closely together they were sharing thoughts. “Then why are you doing this?”

 

“It is what I am.” He shifted, restless, the sounds of the battle floating up from below. “ _It is easy to forget what I came for among so many who have always lived this way. You breathe differently_.”

 

And just like that Darcy knew. She pushed away from Bruce and spoke with confidence.  “ _This is the place, and I am here_.”

 

Darcy’s voice rang out over the mountains dark hair flying, she stood on the edge, back turned to the lake below. She spread her arms and power collected in her palms. A roar rent the air and then she released the balls of energy with a crackle of lightning. The ground shook, tearing apart, long fissures opening, rocks loosened and sliding down the slopes of the mountains. She ruthlessly yanked on the ties to the others, pouring energy down the connections. Bruce changed, the Hulk emerging with a roar. Reaching out, she fanned that distant ember and cast a bright light out into the darkness.

 

“Your names are not in the book of myths,” the Knight warned her amid the maelstrom that was stirring. “He will not let you.”

 

“Then we will make him,” Thor replied, starting forward.

 

“ _We are, I am, you are … we have found our way back to this scene_ ,” Darcy explained. “ _Whether by cowardice or courage_.”

 

“I am sorry, Darcy Lewis.” With a flick of his hand, he captured Bruce and Thor in a circle of magic, just like he had before. But now Darcy knew exactly what to do.

 

_“We are the half-destroyed instruments that once held to a course.”_

Their combined power blew her backwards off the ledge and she fell, the Hulk watching in horror as she toppled over. She hit the surface and all the breath was knocked from her lungs as the water closed over her head, and she sank into the dark depths.

 

[1] William Butler Yeats. “The Second Coming.”

[2] “The Burning of Paper Instead of Children” by Adrienne Rich

[3] “To Winter” William Blake

[4] “Sonnet 97” William Shakespeare

[5] “The Cold Heaven” William Butler Yeats

[6] “From Cold Unblinking Eyes” Salvatorre Buttaci

[7] “Diving into the Wreck” by Adrienne Rich

[8] “Diving” again.

[9][9] “Diving” again. All the next few are from this poem unless otherwise noted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, you thought all those dreams about riding a dragon was a metaphor, huh? *winks*


	13. The Thing They Came For

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I think it … she … has picked a side.” Philip caught Natasha’s profile; a doubt flickered in her eyes before her face became her usual mask of competence. “Clint went in after Darcy. We should get down there to help.”
> 
> “Then we shall join the battle.” Thor said. “I have always wanted to fight a dragon. I never thought I’d fight with one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me too, Clint. Me too. Wrote myself a really big ending here that I'll have to deal with in the next installment.
> 
> Just an interlogue chapter left on this story.

The first wash of power hit Philip while the path circled through the trees; the ledge was blocked from sight, so he couldn’t see what was happening but he could feel the tension ratchet up. Here he was scrambling up a mountain followed by some sewn together creatures intent on ripping him apart, trying to reach his sister, as powerful a mage as the world had seen in generations. His married sister. 

“They’re faster than they look,” Jessica said. The woman was barely sweating and Philip felt like each breath was a rasping effort. A glance behind showed their pursuers catching up to them, at least those who had so far escaped Clint’s burning arrows.

“I think we’ll make it.” Philip actually panted a bit  as he jumped over a fallen branch that blocked the way.  “Clint never misses.”

“Must make sex interesting,” Jessica joked. Philip’s ears reddened but he couldn’t help but smile a bit.

“You have no idea,” he replied.

The second burst came just as the path flattened out onto the ledge, circling from the north and offering a view of the whole lake from the overhang. Fighting raged down below; framed by the black clouds behind her, Darcy stood on the lip of the rocky platform, arms outstretched, power gathering around her hands.  Philip had time to see the Hulk and Thor trapped in bubbles before Darcy spoke.

_“We are the half-destroyed instruments that once held to a course.”_

“NO!” Philip screamed the word as he watched his sister disappear over the edge. Running forward, his arms closed on empty air; only Jessica’s quick grab kept him from following Darcy over.  Instead, he watched her plummet towards the churning water – and something very big and very scaly surged up from the depths.  Wings unfurled, grey skin turning red as it emerged. Nostrils flared as the dragon rose into the air; a mouthy smile revealed rows of yellowed teeth, pointy and sharp. Breath that reeked of sulfur and rotting algae washed over Philip as the head tilted down, reptilian eyes unblinking.  With a snort of hot air, the dragon opened its mouth and sucked in the very magic in the air.

He threw his hands out as if two small pieces of flesh and tiny bones could stop the fire that rushed out of the gaping maw. A shimmering wall sprang into being, curving around the ledge just as the red flames hit. The heat was an intense river that washed up Philip’s arms, hotter than a blacksmith’s forge, but he held strong, projecting all the power he could into the shield. He drew on his bond, the ties to the others, every deep pocket he could find.  His hand began to shake, the skin reddening. Sweat collected on his brow and rolled down into his eyes as his fingers flexed against the pain.

Just as Philip felt his skin start to crisp and flesh melt, someone stepped up beside him and added power to the spell.  Gauntlets glimmered silver in the orange hue of the fire as the heat receded, the shield bolstered by the green and yellow knight. He turned his eyes to Philip, a kind of sadness shadowing the corners.

“This is all I can do for you,” he said. “She will recognize me shortly and that will not end well for everyone. She mourns for her rider; command her and she may listen.”

“Who …” Philip started to ask, then thought of a better question. “Why? Why help us?”

“Many have stood against him; all have failed. You are the first that I believe have a chance.” The blast of heat was dwindling to an end as the Knight spoke. “I ask only one request; Janet Van Dyne. Find her. She needs your aide and will bring great strength with her.”

He was gone as soon as the dragon’s mouth began to close, the Hulk and Thor freed from their magical bonds, leaving Philip facing the mythical beast face to face.

“Darcy!” The Hulk rushed forward, but Jessica threw out an arm and held him back, her smaller body a match for his anger and worry.

“She can swim and Clint and Peter are on it,” Philip said, never taking his eyes off the dragon.  “We all need to stay calm and not make any sudden moves.”

The wind blew hard against him, and he remembered his dream, the feel of flying, living creature between his legs, banking and gliding. As the dragon tilted its head to get a better look at them all, Philip saw a cracked and ancient saddle barely hanging around its forelegs. Its rider was dead, the Knight had said. They had fallen together, mortally wounded, into the icy lake below. Everything Philip’s father had written and studied, all those years ago, about Lord Rogers and his company, Red Hargrave’s dramatic flight, the tales of the Fury’s ancestor – Philip was looking at the magically resurrected steed of one of the greatest fighters of all time, a mount meant for a paladin.

“I’m done waiting,” Philip said to it. “It’s time for you to fly again, to fight the Sorcerer who threatens us all.”

Big head shook back and forth, water splattering over the smoldering hillside. Such a human look as it raised an eyebrow, calculating its next move.

“Darcy called you. We need you. He needs you.” Philip wasn’t exactly sure what he was saying, only that he wanted to reassure the beast.

Wings flapped, the downdraft blowing away skeletal soldiers and some wargs that had been creeping up the mountain. Lifting higher, the dragon’s front leg cleared the ledge and deposited Natasha onto the ground beside Philip.

“Good. That’s good.” Philip winced at the sound of his voice; this wasn’t a dog to be praised. “Can you …” Before he finished, the long body flew over his head, claws brushing the ground as they jumped aside, head and shoulders deep into the cave entrance before it landed, turning itself around three times before sticking its head back out onto the ledge.

“Go,” Philip told the Hulk. Jessica loosened her hold and the berserker jumped over the edge, following Darcy’s trajectory into the water below.

“What a majestic wyrm.” Thor tucked Mjolnir onto his belt and gave the dragon a formal bow, deep and low. “We have not seen your kind since my grandfather’s time. Welcome, oh Great War Flier. Your presence is an honor.”

Unblinking, it stared at Natasha, sniffing in her direction. “I think it likes you,” Jessica said.

“Dragons are intelligent creatures; if it has singled her out, then she is important to it,” Thor said. “They are quite open to flattery, according to the stories, treasure gold, and love music.”

“I don’t have much in the way of gold on me,” Natasha argued as the dragon’s snout smelled along her stomach.

“The knife Barnes gave you.” Philip saw the glint on Natasha’s belt. “And the mark.”

Slowly, Natasha pulled the knife out with her marked wrist, holding it out. A blast of steamy breath messed up her hair and blew streaks of dirty water over her, but she didn’t flinch. Getting a deep whiff, the dragon drew back, lifted its head and keened, sound carried away by the wind. The cry cut through Philip with a palpable grief. Whirling eyes looked at them for a split second then the dragon sprang into the air; Philip rushed to the edge to see teeth snap up a golem, shake it and throw it down the mountain before driving a line of wargs back into the woods.

“I think it … she … has picked a side.” Philip caught Natasha’s profile; a doubt flickered in her eyes before her face became her usual mask of competence. “Clint went in after Darcy. We should get down there to help.”

“Then we shall join the battle.” Thor said. “I have always wanted to fight a dragon. I never thought I’d fight with one.”

* * *

 

_First the air is blue and then it is bluer and then green and then black I am blacking out … **[1]**_

Darcy was sinking, buffeted by a riptide of movements that grew stronger the deeper she went. Light faded, eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness.  She bit her lip to keep from exhaling what little air she had in her lungs and tried to fight the tug of the current, to swim upward. But up might be down; she couldn’t tell where the surface was anymore. The pressure grew on her chest and she fought as long as she could. Cold slimy eelweed wrapped around her ankles, tightening as she struggled to free herself.  Her vision grew grey, black spots creeping in around the edges until she had no choice. The bubbles of air exploded upward as her mouth opened, water rushing in to fill the space. 

_And yet my mask is powerful.  It pumps my blood with power …_

She drew in a nose full of the stuff, blew it back out, again and again. Blinked, stilled, and listened to the rise and fall of her chest. Felt the steady flow of magic through her bond with Bruce. Lifting her hand, she saw the tattoo covering her fingers, winding around each one and up onto the silver of her wedding band, carving itself into the metal, a soft glow infusing the water around her. As she settled, her sight grew sharper, picking out the details of a strange sea of waving green and brown plants, clumps and clusters sprinkled across the rocky bottom. A serene sense of calm reigned down here, the dangers of the surface far above her head.

_The sea is another story.  The sea is not a question of power. I have to learn alone to turn my body without force in the deep element._

A flash of light caught her eye. Something shiny, not too far away. With a thought, the leaves fell away from her skin and she tried to swing forward. The current dragged her back, the water circling her in a different direction. She tried again but no matter how much power she put into her strokes, her body twisted away from where she wanted to go.  Stopping, she floated, hair spread around her face as the water rippled from disturbances above. The circles carried her where she wanted to go as if drawn by the lake itself.  The weeds parted and her feet dragged the bottom; trying to walk only impeded her progress, so she stopped and let the words propel her.

_The thing I came for: the wreck and not the story of the wreck, the thing itself and not the myth, the drowned face always staring toward the sun._

Lying in the silt, looking for the world like he was sleeping, was a man, face serene despite the slashing wound across his chest and the dark splotches on his neck. Empty hands folded by his sides, hair the color of the sun, he was pale, skin like wax. The water took Darcy close enough to brush her fingertips along the arc of his cheekbone and the hard line of his jaw.  So handsome, he could be the hero of any romantic tale, the once and future king of legend, waiting here in his remote cairn for true love’s kiss.

A hand circled her ankle and Darcy was jerked out of her revere; Clint, rope trailing from around his waist, tugged hard, his grasp pulling her back to the surface. Shaking him off, she tried to kick free, pointing to the body below. Wordlessly, they argued, bubbles pouring out of Clint’s mouth; he was stronger, but she wasn’t fighting the magic of the lake. With a touch, she passed the power along her arm and up his. She breathed in and out, showing him. He shook his head; she punched him in the solar plexus, forcing the air out of lungs. His eyes widened in surprise and fear; it took seconds for him to realize that he wasn’t going to drown. Hands on her hips, Darcy gave Clint one of her patented stop-being-an-idiot stares then pointed again. This time, Clint followed the direction of her hand and saw the body.  Darcy mimed picking it up and nodded upward; they each took an arm and tried to lift him, but the weight was too great. They tried again, to the same result.

Hurtling down, the Hulk splashed into the lake and plunged into the depths.  Like wheat in the wind, the eelgrass danced as the displaced water sent waves crashing outward. The body shifted and Darcy got a better handhold, planting her feet and putting her back into the lift. A big arm circled her waist, another around Clint, and the Hulk pushed off, using the motion to bring all of them to the surface in one jump.

The first breath of air felt strange, like she was learning all over again, but she didn’t let go of her burden until the Hulk scooped the man’s body up and dragged it onto the shore. Peter waded in to offer his hand, helping Darcy struggle out onto land, her heavy winter coat waterlogged, weighing her down.  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Philip helping Clint out of the icy waves.

“Gods, Darce.” Peter dragged the wet coat off of her as she began to shiver. “That was intense. A dragon! Did you see the dragon?” He kept babbling as he shed his own coat, wrapping it around his sister’s shoulders. “And you, all explosion and falling and then there were skeletons and wolves and Clint curved an arrow and the dragon grabbed Natasha and then it gobbled up the wolves and smacked the skeletons with its tail …” He stopped short as the Hulk carefully laid the man’s body out. “Um, okay, who is that? Is he dead?”

Darcy dropped to her knees beside the body; Natasha hesitated then knelt next to Darcy.

“Is that really him?” Clint’s teeth chattered as he spoke.

“Lord Steven Rogers.” Philip stepped up behind his husband and wrapped his arms around Clint’s waist, hugging him close. “Perfectly preserved by the cold.”

“Find him. Save him.” Natasha murmured the words that James Barnes had said. “After all this time.”

“He’s why we’re here,” Darcy confirmed. “T _he wreck and not the story of the wreck_.”

“ _The ones who find our way back to the scene with a knife and a book of myths in which our names do not appear_ ,” Philip agreed. 

“Can we stop talking in rhyme and someone explain what that means?” Peter complained. “I mean, I like a good song as well as the next guy, but what the fuck are we going to do with the body of a mythical hero?”

Bruce sagged to his knees, leaning heavily on Darcy to keep from falling over. Fingers laced into her wet hair, stroking the nape of her neck. Warmth suffused her body, slithering along her spine and beginning to drive out the cold.  “He’s not dead. Can’t you feel him? Sadness … so deep and dark that there is no hope.”

“A d-d-dirge, low notes on the bagpipes,” Clint agreed.

Scrunching up his face, Peter listened. “Strong, steady footsteps that know where they’re going.”

“How could he survive?” Jessica shook her head. “Magic. Of course. She wasn’t just calling his armor, she was calling him.”

“A spell cast by Thane Carter.  To keep him in stasis until someone came along who was powerful enough to bring him back,” Philip explained. That’s what the knight on the ledge had meant, Darcy realized, when he’d said she couldn’t do this. But she had.

“And healed a dragon too?” Fandral looked at the beast who was inching forward, snout sniffing along the ground. “There’s a song in there somewhere.”

“Um, excuse me, but he still looks dead to me,” Peter pointed out.

“Darcy?” Philip asked.

She looked up at her brother and sighed. “I know, I know. I started this, so now I’ve got to end it. Okay, folks, I’m going to need as much help as I can get and say a prayer to whatever god you believe in that I don’t screw it up like I almost did earlier.”

She spread her left hand on the man’s chest, covering his heart. Her ring picked up his magic and began to glow a bright blue. Then she reached across the body for Natasha’s wrist and put the thane’s hand on top of her own. Blue curled around Natasha’s fingers; red and silver slipped down from her mark and braided together into a solid chain.

“Okay, everybody grab a hand. Bruce and I will close the circle once we’re ready.” She felt each one as they joined in, a choir of voices mixing together into a song that became clearer. Clint added music, Philip’s power showering sparks over the body. Peter’s energy thrummed through them all. Fandral was like laughter, bright and light. Thor, that feeling of pressure dropping right before a storm.  Jessica was the rush after a good fight. Natasha was the deep pool in the stream, calm and centered. Bruce, passion set free from constraints.   

As her free hand slid into Bruce’s, Darcy heard the words in her head just as the dragon breathed a warm draft of air across them.

_“Birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: our soul rises with us but comes from afar, another place.  Never entirely forgetting nor utterly naked, we are born trailing clouds of glory as we return.” **[2]**_

Darcy braced for the backlash but it never came.  Like an easy exhale, the magic circled through them, drawn into Rogers. The tri-color chain expanded along his skin, changing grey flesh to pink, closing wounds, and washing away the stench of death. Without thinking about it, Darcy drew her hand out from under Natasha’s, feeling for a pulse as his chest rose once, stuttering up in a hesitant breath, then fell. Time passed slowly before the next breath then the next.

His eyes moved beneath his lids, darting back and forth. The dragon’s long forked tongue licked up Rogers’ cheek. Lips parted, he sighed and his eyes cracked open.  Pools of blue hazily searched the crowd of faces. His hand circled Natasha’s wrist with his fingers.

“Bucky?” He whispered, squinting. “Where am I?”

Natasha leaned closer, flattening her palm on his chest. “Lake Caldera. You fell.”

Eyebrows knitted together in confusion. “Buck fell. I couldn’t catch him.” He tilted his head and lifted a hand, raising it towards Natasha. “It’s you. He found you first. He’ll never let me live that down.”

“He told us to save you.” Natasha carefully avoided revealing any details.

“He was always bossy,” Rogers agreed. Fingers still overlapping the bonding mark on her wrist, he cupped her cheek with his other palm.

That’s when the magic exploded, tossing Darcy back into Bruce and sending everyone else down to their knees as power enveloped them all.

* * *

 

He woke with a start, eyes flying open, images still burned on his lids. His dreams had been dark of late, filled with violence and death, good men gone and lives lost. Empty spaces and deep chasms of cold left little room for anything else in his soul. The Master’s programming had seen to that.

But now, a long dead part of himself was flaring, a memory of his too, too mortal flesh and another life, long gone.  Warmth, love, companionship, friends …

“Steve.”

The word was like a cool drink on his parched throat.  Memories flooded his brain as the heat seared on his skin, bonds burning away the last vestiges of the fog that surrounded him.  He wiped the ice from the glass window, fingers searching the edge for a release catch in the metal. The small space usually didn’t bother him but now it seemed like a prison of his own making. Clenching his fists, he pounded on the door, hard, intent on breaking the seal.

With a click, it swung outward, light blinding him briefly.

“Well, well,” Loki said. “And what vexes you?”

James pushed the prince out of the way and stumbled into the middle of the room. “No business of yours, Asgardian. I don’t answer to you.”

“It is no coincidence, then, that the Master’s Vision has gone missing and your little red head and her company are at the lake, stirring the waters.” A smirk grew as Loki stepped aside, waving towards the doorway. “Please, don’t let me stop you. This should be interesting.”

James Barnes gave no more thought to the smiling man as he strode from the room, grabbing his sword and cloak as he left the door open behind him.

* * *

 

“He’s got a pulse,” Natasha confirmed, her fingers on the unconscious Lord Rogers’s neck. “But he needs a healer. The wound on his chest isn’t closing.”

Clint shivered, the cold seeping into his bones; sodden fabric stuck to his skin, the wind making it feel like bands of ice. “Thor …” His throat spasmed and he hid a quick cough behind his fist. “Can you … take him to Singer’s place? We need to keep his presence quiet.” Clint looked around at the rest of them, all of them tired, cold, and battered from both the fight and the magic’s aftereffects. “We need to check Andrew and Ada; we don’t know if they’ve been targeted as well.  I want us back at Singer’s; s-s-somewhere in his house, there has to be answers for us to find.”

“Jessica can go with Natasha, Fandral, and Peter,” Philip broke in. “You, Darcy, and Bruce are going nowhere until you’re in dry clothes and warmed up. In case you haven’t noticed, it’s late afternoon and snowing. Last thing we need is any of you falling sick.”

“We can’t stay here. The sorcerer knows our location.” Clint ignored the way his numb fingers fumbled at the knot in the rope as he tried to untie it. “We fall back to a safe location first.”

“Clint.” Natasha knocked his hands aside and got the rope free. “We have a dragon and a very defensible cave. I think we can manage to defend ourselves. I’ll stay and Philip can go.”

“I’m not going either,” Philip argued.

“Last I heard, I was the L-l-lord here.” Clint stepped towards his husband, stumbling slightly as his toes burned, little pinpricks throwing off his balance.

“And I like your fingers too much to lose them to frostbite, so that’s settled.” Philip smiled at him and Clint knew he’d lost when Jessica grabbed her pack from where she’d dropped it in her earlier scramble up the mountain, preparing to go.

“Jess, you and Peter and Fandral head down the trail.” At least Clint could save a little face by making the plan his own. What had he and Philip talked about at Singer’s?  If Philip was exercising his right to override Clint, then Clint should pay attention. It also helped that Philip was right; Bruce and Darcy looked as miserable Clint felt. Ice crystals decorated Darcy’s drying hair. “The rest of us will make camp in the cave while Thor takes Rogers.”

To their credit, everyone accepted without comment. Even Peter didn’t argue, slinging his pack on his back after taking his coat back from his sister. As Thor made a move towards Rogers, the dragon growled, huffed a warm breath and crouched over Roger’s form.  With a calm measured step, Natasha laid her hand on the ridge just above the dragon’s eye. She slipped her fingers under a scale and scratched the sensitive skin.

“We’re going to help him get better.” As her fingers worked, an iridescent lid slid down and the dragon tilted its head for better access.  “I promise we’ll protect him.”

Like she knew exactly what to do, Clint thought as he watched her standing there, unflinching, beside a creature from legends. Whatever was happening with Barnes and Rogers, Natasha was being drawn into it.  The petting worked; Thor picked up Rogers with only the watchful stare of the dragon tracking him.

“I shall come back after he is settled in case more of the bespelled creatures return,” Thor said and then he was gone, hurtling up into the sky.

“Okay, grab a pack and let’s get up the mountain.” Clint was most worried about Bruce; he’d changed too often in the last few days. Worn and barely moving, Bruce weaved as he started walking. Darcy had an arm around his waist, but she was tiring from all the magic she’d expended. They’d be lucky to make it up the trail. Exchanging a concerned look with Philip, Clint pushed aside his own aches, plastering on his confident face.

The updraft almost knocked him over; the dragon rose from the ground, wings flapping as it hovered. It carefully picked up Darcy and Bruce in one claw before the other snatched up Clint. Rising in the sky, they were on the ledge in a few heartbeats, the dragon dropping them just outside the cave before it went in, disappearing in the gloom.

“Help me,” Darcy asked, Bruce slumped at her side. “He’s exhausted but I think the Hulk wants out to protect me. He’s fighting himself.”

Clint slipped an arm around Bruce’s other side and they carried him into the cave.  The ceiling was high, the rock hewn by the same methods they’d seen in the underground assembly hall near Hawk’s Leap, all smooth walls and clean edges. An antechamber that was big enough for the dragon to walk through had a large opening on the left and two smaller ones on the right. Through the large doorway, Clint could see the gleaming red scales of the dragon, curled up on a rocky bed. The other two turned out to be comfortable rooms with a joined fireplace in the wall between them, some sort of flue system to vent the smoke out somewhere higher up. If they had wood, they could make a fire; settling Bruce against a wall, Darcy shivering next to him, Clint headed down the trail into the woods to find some branches to burn. It took longer than he’d like, his toes going from tingling to distant numbness before he had enough in his arms to even get started. Piling the wet wood in the grate, he thought to check the flue then realized he had no way to light it; everything on his body was soaking wet, and his pack was down the hill.

“Here.” Darcy came up behind him. Closing her eyes, she spoke. “ _I know how it hurts to burn_ ,” she whispered. A tiny stir of magic and flames leaped, catching despite the damp. “Nice, huh? That’ll be a handy parlor trick.”

He caught her before she crumpled all the way down, easing her over beside Bruce. What he needed to do was get more wood before this burned out, but he hated to leave them both in their cold clothes. He settled for taking off their boots and socks and turning their feet towards the fire that was already heating the enclosed space. Then he went out again, stomping along to keep himself awake, a lethargy stealing over him as he searched through the woods. A fog descended and he struggled to focus on the simple task of finding firewood. He had to try two times to clasp his hand around a branch then fumbled the next one, dropping it on the ground. All the trees began to look the same; he knew he should go back so he turned around, putting one step ahead of the other.

“Clint.”

He blinked at his name.

“Mmmmm, Phil, stay in bed.”

Philip’s arms were warm about him and Clint had no desire to move.

“Clint, sit up. We have to get you out of these clothes.”

Getting naked sounded good. If Clint could just work up the energy to open his eyes. Philip’s hands were on his skin, dragging at the heavy weight that was wearing Clint down.

“You first, baby.”

Pins and needles laced up his calves, muscles cramping. A distant muffled laugh.

“You’re hypothermic, Clint.  You need to get warm.”

Hands rubbing his feet brought tears to his eyes and made him come fully awake.

“You can help with that.” Clint’s teeth chattered as Philip got his pants off and left him sitting in bare skin on the cold floor. Heat from the fire washed over him and then a blanket was around his shoulders, the wool scratchy and smelling faintly of horse. “Shared bodies, right?”

Philip smiled at his husband. “Your toes are almost blue and you’re flirting with me.”

“Not flirting,” Clint mumbled, snuggling his nose against Philip’s collarbone. “I fully intend to follow through.”

“Might be awkward, what with Bruce and Darcy right here.” Philip slipped dry socks on and began helping Clint into another pair of pants. “Not to mention Natasha. And a red dragon.”

Lifting up, Clint let Philip finish dressing him, enjoying the sparks between them.  “I was getting wood,” he said, remembering.

“We found you sitting by the trail. Damn it, Clint, you were soaking wet and close to frostbite. Why didn’t you stay in the cave?” Philip railed at him.

“Needed a fire.” Clint glanced over to where Bruce was sleeping in a tangled blanket, his head on Darcy’s lap. Her head was back against the wall, eyes closed, her hand in Bruce’s curls. “How’s Natasha?”

“Ask her yourself.” Philip stood up, nodding to where Natasha was standing in the doorway. “Maybe she’ll talk to you.”

A bit of wobbling but Clint could stand and take the few steps on his tingling feet. He tucked the blanket tighter and leaned against the archway.

“Nice to see you’re not an icicle.” Natasha raised an eyebrow at Clint’s still bare chest. “Stupid move, but I’ll cut you a break since you dived into an icy lake to save your sister-in-law.”

“I had a rope.” Clint accepted the silver flask and took a sip, the whiskey burning its way down his throat then passed it back to Natasha. “What’s your excuse?”

He thought she wasn’t going to answer, but then her shoulders slumped and she drank a long swallow. “You of all people know that I’m the last person to believe in bonds and magical connections,” she began. “This.” She waved her hand; the mark was still bright, a silvery ring around her wrist. “I don’t know what to do with it.”

“I’m working on believing it myself.” He still marveled at the depth of his feelings for Philip. An arranged marriage that he dreaded had turned into the best part of his life. “I’m not exactly the romantic type despite that silly song that Philip likes so much.”

“Playing pirate not getting old yet?” Natasha chuckled fondly. “I’m happy for you. Couldn’t happen to a more stubborn guy.” She passed the flask back. “The first mark was … strange. Unwanted. I don’t …” She stopped, started again. “The second time, it was more than just a connection. I remembered things, Clint. Memories that weren’t mine. Rogers and Barnes, their lives. It brought things back, things I want to forget.”

“Tasha.” Clint was one of the few people who knew even a little about Natasha’s childhood. She had locked it away and never spoke of it.

“But Rogers’ mark? That I just don’t understand at all. All the tales say the two had the strongest of bonds. Most I can think is that Barnes’ touch called to him.” Natasha wasn’t looking at him. “Maybe they’re not bonding marks; I’m a conduit between the two of them, a way to bring Rogers and Barnes back together.”

“Are you that sure no one could love you for yourself?” It was her deepest fear; that she was too damaged to ever trust that someone truly loved her.  Clint was the closest friend Natasha had, and even he wasn’t allowed behind all of her defenses.

“Yes.” She absolutely believed that.  “Besides, a bond is two people and I can count to three.”

She had a point. Philip had been reading up on bonds and Clint was learning as well; they had a long way to go to gain a tenth of the knowledge people in Rogers’ time had. But bonds were always spoken of as a pair; even when one of the bonded died, they never formed another. Still, Natasha sold herself short; she deserved someone who would love her just the way she was, scars and all.

“There’s always that rumor about Margaret Carter and Lord Rogers being secret lovers.”  Clint nudged her. “Quite a scandal at the time, according to the journals I read.”

“Trust you to find porn while doing research.” She did what she always did, tucked away any weakness.  “We’ve got enough to worry about without getting into that. Like what to do when Rogers wakes up. That’s a secret we won’t be able to keep for long.”

“Actually, I think that’s the easy part.” Clint glanced across the cavern. “The hard part is what where we’re going to hide a dragon. And feed it.”

* * *

 

Lord Anthony Stark hated court functions. Usually, he skipped out on them if he could and sometimes when he shouldn’t. He’d rather be in his workshop than dealing with the minutiae of politics and daily running of his holding. That was one reason he’d left so much of the work to Obadiah; his late father’s trusted advisor, Obie was a born leader, willing to make the decisions and handling all of the details Anthony didn’t care about.

But lately Stane had been pressuring Anthony to get more involved, beyond just appearing at the Faire and other parties. He’d taken to lecturing Anthony on what it meant to be Lord of the wealthiest holding. Fury’s might be bigger and better armed, but the Starks had more money than the King and most of the other nobles put together, Fury excluded. Obadiah had even gone as far as to hire a new chatelaine, the lovely strawberry blonde Virginia Potts. Anthony had to give Stane credit; Pepper, as she was called, was a one woman wonder who got Anthony’s life in order and smelled ever so much like lilacs. In the short time she’d been there, Anthony had come to rely completely upon her aide and he’d even learned to respect her inventive ways to get him where needed to be on time.

Like today. The small council meeting had been blessedly free of conflict and in a room with a view to distract Anthony when his Exchequer started in on the monthly budget numbers. Anthony had made it through the whole thing without insulting anyone or storming out of the room. In fact, he’d had time to sketch a new faceplate for the armor he was working on, adding some bold shapes and lines that would annoy the older nobles. Striding out of the room, Anthony pushed aside the Marshall’s questions about new crossbows and heading back down the hall, his brain already filled with numbers and angles and inner works of new machines.

“Lord Stark.” Pepper ran alongside of him, keeping up with his frenetic pace. “There are still the contracts to sign and Michaelmas plans to formalize. Just a quarter of an hour, My Lord, and then you can work the rest of the afternoon until the dinner with the envoy from Lord Richards.”

“Seriously, Pep, I don’t want to hear more about Reed Richards’ conspiracy theories; he’s just trying to drag us into his own mess. Waves from exploding stars, my ass. The man calls himself a scientist.” Anthony took the quill from her hand and starting signing the first contract she held up for him, never pausing. “And I don’t care what color the hall is decked in for the holidays, just make it look good and not too garish. The royal court looked like someone vomited bows last year. I trust you to handle it.”

He didn’t bother to read any of the parchments, just scrawled his illegible signature on sheet after sheet.

“Red it is then.” Pepper juggled the stack of vellum, keeping the ink from smearing. “Oh, and I gave the two brunettes the usual talk and kicked them out of your chambers. Could you give me a day or two to get the linens aired out? The sheets need a good washing.” There was a hint of censure in her voice and Anthony was beginning to think maybe she actually cared what happened to him.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m going to be busy in the lab anyway. The one did reek of barley soap.” Down two stairways, a long hall, and through three doors, Anthony walked through the old part of the castle where his workshop was located to avoid bothering … or blowing up … anyone or anything. “I’m done with that kind of woman, Pep. They don’t know me, not like you do.”

“Of course, Lord Stark. Just like you gave up coffee and seafood and never speaking to Thane Rhodes again.” In such a short time, Pepper had grown to know him so well that Anthony had to laugh.

He was still chuckling when they rounded the corner and saw the men blocking their path. Three burley thugs with yellow vests and the strangest metal crossbows in their hands. Before Anthony could do more than slide to a stop, the one in the lead pointed the metal barrel at Anthony and pulled the trigger. A loud bang and a rolling cloud of grey smoke preceded a sharp pain in Anthony’s chest. Staggering backwards, he flung himself in front of Pepper.

“Run!” He shouted to her above the echo of the explosion. “Get help.”

The clatter of her shoes was reassuring as the pain spread and he sank to the floor.

“Now that I have your attention, Lord Stark,” one of the men said. “Let’s talk about the little blue power source you’re going to create for us.”

 

 

 

[1] This is my favorite part of “Diving Into the Wreck.” The sheer beauty of Rich’s words I give you unedited; she says it much better than I ever could.

[2] “Ode: Intimations on Immortality from Recollection of Childhood.” William Wordsworth. Seems fitting for Steve. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to clarify, yes, that's the Vision. I had a little otp of the Vision and Janet Van Dyne from Earth's Mightiest Heroes, so why not write it into the back story? And Tony's kidnapping worked out perfectly as a way to drive the plot into the next section. 
> 
> Tony, Pepper, and Rhodey will show up in the third part, as will a certain pair of hunters called into action by Old Man Singer. 
> 
> As always, comments and feedback are welcome!


	14. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michaelmas holidays arrive along with lots of guests ... some invited and some not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end of this story and the beginning of the next one. :)))

The Main Hall was crowded with celebrants, tables pushed against one wall to make room for dancing at the far end, benches arranged around the room.  People flowed out into the entry hall; Philip had been right about needing more than one space for everyone; the guard hall’s mess room was also decked out for the season. Most of the guard and the workers took a turn through the Manor and then found their way down to the new building where cider was flowing freely and Fandral held court with his guitar, singing songs that grew bawdier as the night went on. Not that the Manor entertainments were stuffy or pompous; Philip had called upon local talent to perform, and fiddle music rang out, country reels and dance tunes at the moment with an occasional ballad or tale for people to rest their weary feet.  “[Fierce](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZSugQfkhCbc)” gave way to “[Donald McGillarvy](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i6adkbli22I&list=RDOFxQQbCZEj4&index=3)” and then “[Stretched Out on Your Grave](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OFxQQbCZEj4).”

 

Dax had outdone himself; the trestles fairly groaned with the food he’d spent a week preparing. Pasties of all flavors, so easy to hold in a hand as people chatted, and a whole pig, slow roasted in a fire pit, smoky flavor heightened by the spicy rub and the delicious dipping sauce.  The traditional roast haunch of beef was sliced into delicate slivers, a tangy horseradish flavor prevalent in the creamy dressing. Diced potatoes, crispy outside, soft inside, tossed in red pepper and other spices. Lord Fury had been surprised to find a yellow rice dish ladened with late vegetables and roasted chicken; a single bite brought tears to his eye. He’d laughed and scooped up a large bowl, using the grilled flatbread to shovel it in his mouth. Big, yeasty rolls and dense brown bread were being constantly replenished.  The fried apple pies were the hit of the desert table with the sweet potato tart disappearing almost as fast.  Bowls of candy were sitting around the room; Annamarie had warned the boys within an inch of their lives to keep them from filling their pockets every time they passed.  Theodore seemed determined to build his own hoard; Clint noticed the boy kept returning to William’s favorite toffee.

 

Standing by the fire, Clint watched the coming and goings. Jessica was in the guard hall overseeing the party there; Thor hadn’t departed Jane’s side all night, talking her into two dances so far despite the fact she said she had two left feet. Maria Hill was deep in conversation with Carol, no doubt still arguing the merits of a dirk over a dagger for close-in work. 

 

“Should we worry about those two?” Philip asked, stepping up behind Clint.

 

“Maria scares me; I’m long past worry and into terror,” Clint replied.

 

“I was talking about Peter and Hank.” Philip nodded towards a corner were the two teens had their heads together. Since the McCarters had arrived two days ago, they’d become inseparable, sharing an insatiable interest in science.  Clint had spoken to them earlier and Hank had gone on about some kind of tiny particles, Peter jumping in enthusiastically. “Good thing they’re off to university in a few weeks. Let them build things that blow up there.”

 

“Assuming Peter can keep from webbing his room.” Clint shouldn’t find it funny, the way Peter’s newfound ability seemed tied to his emotions. First time Peter trapped himself in his bed, he hadn’t called for help until after breakfast because he was too embarrassed. 

 

“Considering what Melinda told us about Hank and the ant farm, probably best those two are rooming together.” Philip’s hands migrated to Clint’s waist, resting on the curve of Clint’s hips. “We seem to be collecting a motley assortment of talents. Darcy and Bruce’s bonding accelerated things even more.”

 

The ceremony had gone as smoothly as they could manage; after Clint and Philip’s experience, they knew some of what to expect. The secondary chapel at Frasierton Abbey had a partial roof and made an ideal location. Hallowed ground was hard to come by; blessed when the Abbey was being built, the site had been a battlefield before that. If the legends were true, lots of blood was spilled in a fight that pitted brother against brother. Clint and Barney had actually spent the night under the stars when they were little, looking for ghostly fighters creeping across the ground. 

 

In the end, the need for warmth won out over Philip’s arguments about safety; a fire was built in the newly cleaned room and a soft mattress added. Between Darcy and Philip, the protections were strong enough and yet the spiral of power was felt all the way back at the Manor and beyond. Philip still blushed when anyone mentioned the apple orchard; the tree bark scratches on Clint’s back had taken three days to heal. 

 

“Any chance I can steal your cook away, Barton?” Fury had another pie and tart on his plate. “To hell with all those chefs from the Capitol with their little plates and fancy food. Can’t believe you have curry spices; haven’t had rice this good since the Outer Isles.”

 

“You’re welcome to ask,” Clint told him. “Dax is his own man, and Rachel can do what she likes. But you’ll have to fight Laird McCarter and Thor for them.” He laughed a bit. “Don’t even bother to ask Annamarie. Her family’s been in Frasierton for generations.”

 

Fury took a big bite of the sugary pillow of dough, apple filling oozing out the side.  After he swallowed, he continued, “So, I see you’re not keeping Phil in the style he was accustomed to.”

 

“Well, I …” Clint didn’t sputter because Philip squeezed him in sympathy and answered for him.

 

“Indeed,” Philip agreed. “He’s doing much better than expected. A manor to rebuild, ancient texts to read and catalogue, great food, and even some young hellions to bring into line. He knows the way to my heart.”

 

With a snort, Fury smiled and Clint could see he was actually a handsome man without his perpetual scowl. “I see the marital bed agrees with you, Phil. Couldn't ask for a better ending; Loki out in the cold and you with love bites on your neck.”

 

Philip’s hand flew up to the bruises just visible above his collar; Clint grinned back at his husband. “Trust me,” Clint assured Fury. “Phil gives as good as he takes.”

 

“Oh, gods, don’t get him started.” Philip’s face went bright red. “Clint doesn’t have the filters necessary for court life.”

 

“And you like me that way,” Clint teased. He wasn’t worried about Fury’s reaction; since the Lord had arrived yesterday with his traveling party, Clint had realized that Fury truly wanted what was best for his heirs.  His reaction to the news about Darcy and Bruce was a long suffering sigh and the demand that they be presented at court in spring so he could watch the reaction of the rest of the council. He’d even suggested they make sure that Loki was present when it happened.

 

“It seems I’m losing my whole family,” Fury complained around another mouthful. “Philip and Darcy are at least in one place, makes it easy to visit. Peter’s off to University soon.  At the rate I’m going, Maria will find some strong willed person and run off to parts unknown.”

 

“Actually, have you met Lady Sif? I think Maria and she would get along well.” Philip was baiting Fury, Clint knew, and he enjoyed the moment of levity. They were safe and all here together. That was worth celebrating.

 

“Don’t even think about it. Bad enough Jane’s making doe eyes at Prince Thor; I don’t need two people running off to Asgard.” Fury turned to survey the room. Darcy had maneuvered Bruce under one of the sprigs of mistletoe, and they looked lovely, bodies close, hands clasped as they kissed lightly.  Rodriguez and the red headed Dooley were seated together, rosy stains on her cheeks from too much wine and the flattering words Dooley was whispering in her ear.  Annamarie was caught up in the festivities, laughing at one of Andrew’s stories as he distracted her from refilling food trays.

 

“I think it’s too late for Jane,” Philip said. In the days since they’d made their way home from the mountains, Thor had pressed his suit and Jane had eagerly accepted. Darcy and Bruce’s bonding ceremony had worked its magic on the couple; Clint had seen Jane sneaking out of Thor’s room just last night in fact.  “But look on the bright side. Now you are the first Lord with a family connection to Asgard. Not the one everyone expected, but even better. Thor’s the crown prince after all, not the outcast.”

 

“True. You always were good at seeing the bright side,” Fury agreed.  “Speaking of Loki, we’ll meet tomorrow afternoon, all of us, Thor included. I think it’s time we lay our cards on the table. Especially that mystery man you’ve got stashed away. He woke up yet?”

 

Exactly how Fury knew about Rogers, Clint couldn’t guess. They’d been as stealthy as possible, transferring the comatose man first to Singer’s and then to the hunting lodge where the caretakers were the only ones who knew he was there beyond those who’d been at the lake.  They were taking turns watching Rogers; Natasha was there now. He was drifting in and out, lucid only for a short few minutes at a time but when the bonding magic hit, he’d awoken and asked about Bucky and the others for a good half an hour. Jessica had talked to him, explaining how long he’d been lost under the water before he’d slipped back into unconsciousness.

 

“Fits and starts.” Might as well answer the question. Fury already knew.

 

“So,” Fury said with a grin. “Where did you put the dragon?”

 

Nathan tugged on his coat tail; Philip still hadn’t broken him of that habit. His cheeks were filled with candy, so he was difficult to understand. “Cl … Lord Barton. There’s someone at the door. Needs to see you.”

 

“Show them in then. And don’t talk with your mouthful or I’ll tell Annamarie who knocked over the tray of tarts this morning,” Clint warned. Nathan ducked his head, bobbed it once, and then ran off.

 

“Interesting pages you have there,” Fury noted.

 

The two people who crossed the hall garnered Clint’s full attention. The man’s skin was dark cocoa, a grim line above his brow. He was as tall as Clint, maybe an inch or two more, and he walked like a warrior, hand on his sword hilt. The woman next to him was petite, her red hair glowing in the candlelight as she strode across the room with a stunning intensity. Of the two, she was the one who drew Clint’s eye.

 

“Lady Virginia?” Philip spoke first. “And Thane Rhodes? To what do we owe this pleasure?”

 

“It’s Tony,” Virginia said. “He’s been kidnapped and no one believes us.”

 

“What?” Fury said, surprised.  “What’s Obadiah up to now?”

 

“It was Lord Tarleton’s men.  Something about an energy source,” Rhodes explained. “We didn’t know who else to trust; it was an inside job.”

 

“You’re a mage, Philip. We need your help.” If Virginia’s no nonsense declaration bothered Philip, he didn’t show it. “We have to find Tony and soon. I have a feeling this is much bigger than one of Tony’s inventions.”

                                                           

“Sit down and get something to eat and drink,” Clint told them; what had he and Philip just been talking about? All the gathering talents? “And welcome to Barton Manor.”

* * *

 

Firelight spread dark shadows in the otherwise unlit room. Warm and cozy, the lodge was locked up tight against the snow, everything in place. In the bedroom, the quilts curled around the man on the sheets, his chest rising and falling with regularity, his eyes closed and body loose with sleep. Pausing just inside the doorway, James Barnes drank in the sight of his bonded, the flush of heat in Steve’s cheeks a sign of things he’d never thought he’d have again.

“He’s in and out.” The red head unfolded herself from the overstuffed wing chair. “First thing he said was your name.”

He didn’t start; he’d seen her there, had known long before he entered the building that she was inside. His fingers itched to touch her again, to see if the connection was real or just another phantom pain the Master used to torment him. For years, he’d assumed the tantalizing tidbits about Steve were another of the Master’s ways to keep him in line. He had to come see for himself.

“Is he … still himself?” That was James’ greatest fear, that Steve was like him, mind so messed up he couldn’t remember anymore.

“Yes, from what little we’ve gotten from him. Longest he was awake was half an hour. Asked a lot of questions: when, where, who we were, where you were. He seems to understand there was a spell and the amount of time that’s passed.” She cocked her head in a gesture that stirred a memory. He’d seen someone do that before, a woman’s voice, red in the snow … he pulled himself back from the edge of the dark pit that would swallow him whole if he let it. “Talk to him. Maybe he’ll listen to you.”

“No.” He couldn’t risk it. What if Steve found out, if the bond showed him just how black James’ soul had become? What if the bond wasn’t there at all, just an echo of two very young and naïve men who no longer existed? “I just wanted to see him. I can’t stay; they’ll know where I am and come after me.”

“About that.” She laid a smooth stone on the small table, a leather thong threaded through a small hole. “It’s an amulet that will protect you from geas and any other attempt to take over your will. It won’t stop them from finding you but will keep you safe from their control.” He didn’t reach for it; she picked it back up and held it out on the palm of her hand. “I know you have no reason to trust me. But, please. Take it. So I can tell Lord Rogers you have it. It will make him feel better.”

“That’s a low blow.” James found himself smiling at her manipulation as his fingers closed around the rock. Just the barest brush of tips to her skin and her energy poured into his mind, strength and intelligence wrapped around suffering that called to him, kindred spirit to kindred spirit.

“Natalia?” He whispered the name that rose to the surface.  Eyes widened and she snatched her hand away as if burned.

“Natasha. Natasha Romanov.” She wrapped her arms around herself and stepped away. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but I’m not …”

“Bucky?” Steve’s voice was hoarse and quiet, but it thrummed into the icy coldness like a burning torch, familiar touch of power, faint but there. Surety and confidence. Comfort and Compassion. The unmistakable bond with Steve. “Is that you?”

“Nah.” He couldn’t help himself; like a magnet he was drawn to the bed. “Just a figment of your overactive imagination, Stevie. Go back to sleep.”

Rogers shifted, reaching out a hand that James really didn’t want to take. His body betrayed him, though, and their fingers touched, palms sliding across each other until their hands were clasped tight. With a long sigh, Rogers tugged at him until James sat on the edge of the bed. “Liar. You trying to sneak out in the middle of the night again? I thought we were past that.”

“Yeah, well, things have changed while you were sleeping.” Gruff and raspy, James knew his voice left no doubt of his emotions. “I’m not the same man I was then.”

“The hair. I can see that.” Steve raised his other hand and tangled it into the long locks. “I kind of like it. Gives me something to hold onto.”

James could feel the fingers loosen as Steve’s eyelids sagged, feel the lethargy slip through the bond. “Plenty of time for that later. Rest up and get back to full strength so you can keep up with me.”

“Will you be here?” Steven knew his so well. His hand slipped back down by his side.

“I won’t be far.” That was as close to the truth as James could give him.

“Keep her safe,” Steven murmured, squeezing James’ fingers.

“Always.”

He waited until Steven was deep asleep before he pried his fingers away from his lover’s.

“Go.” Natasha told him. “We’ll watch over him until you’re free.”

“Thank you.” He dropped the amulet in his pocket, caught her face and pressed his lips to hers. He meant it to be a quick kiss, but their magic collided and he was ravenous for touch, the need to taste her. He had to force himself to step back. Her pupils were dilated and her chest heaving as she took quick breaths. “Tell him that I love him. It’s just not enough right now. You understand.”

He fled into the night, hand warm from Steve’s touch and lips tingling from Natasha’s kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to have Rhodey in there! The next story will keep the POVs of Clint and Phil but add the triangle of Natasha/Bucky/Steve. Haven't ever written a threesome for a long plot line; should be interested. I've had this idea of writing Natasha for some time now, but I just haven't had a place to put it. A sort of head canon about her past and the abuse that lurks there. Don't worry, Bruce and Darcy will be there as well as Jane/Thor and the growing romance of Fandral/Jessica. 
> 
> What the heck am I going to do with a dragon, I ask myself ...


End file.
